


Breaking Routine

by fannishlyyours



Series: Breaking [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Other, Transgender, Transitioning, mention of childhood sexual abuse (not a main character), mentions of suicide (not a main character), some transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishlyyours/pseuds/fannishlyyours
Summary: Dean, formerly Deanna, Winchester has been working two jobs, dating absolutely no one, and generally living a life decidedlynotdebauched for a long time. That is, until a stupidly attractive, awkwardly funny, and smart as fuck professor enters his life and reminds him what it is to have more.





	1. Chapter 1

_Deanna Winchester_ , Dean signs for what he hopes will be the last time. After eighteen protracted months of bureaucratic hurdles and countless physical and emotional trials, he finally has everything he needs to petition the state of Kansas for both a name change and an updated gender marker on his driver’s license. No more explanations to nosy shop clerks or bank tellers. No more ma’am after someone checks his ID. No more doubletakes, curious glances or shaming stares. Perhaps he is being overly optimistic--he still lives in Kansas, after all--but the hard-earned, unfamiliar emotion feels good. 

He caps the pen and gathers the petition, the letter from his physician attesting that he’s had the necessary clinical treatment to be reclassified, and a copy of his current driver’s license. He folds them neatly into an envelope, already addressed and stamped. Then he pours himself another shot of whiskey and grins.

*

_Eight Months Later_

“Fuck! Argh!” 

Dean chases the loud bang of his trash cart hitting the wall and comes to a sudden stop at the sight before him. On the floor of the hallway, next to his skewed trash cart, is a dark-haired man, one arm holding onto his left side, the other braced against the ground, head turned away from Dean. 

“Hey, you okay? Let me help you up,” Dean says. He strides over and places a hand on the guy’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” the man says, twisting around to face Dean. Dean is struck by his eyes, blue as the hydrangeas his mother had loved. 

“I’m clumsy at this time of the night,” he continues, and Dean finally recognizes him as the professor who’d recently moved into the long-vacant 820. 

Dean offers him a hand. The professor takes it, grip strong, and together, they get him upright.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes dropping down to Dean’s university ID, “Dean.” 

Their hands are still clasped and they are standing very close to each other. Dean begins to feel awkward at the prolonged eye contact and breaks first, stepping away. “No problem. Are you okay?”

His question snaps the professor out of his intense stare. He sags, still holding his left side. “I’ll be fine. Probably just going to have a phenomenal bruise.”

“There’s ice in the kitchen. Come on, I’ll put a bag together.” He rights the trash cart and locks the wheels--he’d forgotten earlier, it seems. The professor moves towards the kitchen, and Dean stares after him to assess whether he needs to offer assistance. 

“Everything okay? I didn’t damage the cart, did I?” he stops to ask.

“I think the cart did the damage here,” Dean says and falls into step with him. “I shouldn’t have left the cart out here like this. People don’t expect it to be here.” Dean doesn’t mention that he didn’t expect to find people either. In the months that he’s been cleaning the building, very rarely has he seen anyone on the upper floors after nine. A few times in the fall there had been a program coordinator, Masumi, cleaning up after an event.

“You aren’t to blame, Dean. It was definitely out of the way. This late, my depth perception deteriorates with the decreasing reserves of caffeine.”

Dean pauses at the door to let the professor through, digesting the words. Nerdy, just like Sam. He should’ve figured. “I thought mathematicians were in Dennison, not this building.”

The professor laughs and immediately winces at the pull on his side. Dean guides him to a chair. “Sit, I’ll get the ice.”

Dean opens a cupboard and examines the contents--an entire shelf devoted to unopened bags of Starbucks coffee, another to a few boxes of tea, primarily green. He notes the paper and plasticware, containers of tongs and serving spoons collected from catering, before landing on the saran wrap, aluminum foil, and a big box of ziploc bags. He pulls one out and goes straight to the freezer, scooping out enough ice to fill three quarters of the bag. He carefully zips it, walks over to the sink and opens the cupboard underneath. There is a stack of clean, folded dish towels, and he grabs one to wrap around the bag. He walks the makeshift pack over to the professor. “Here,” he says.

The professor takes the wrapped bag, then looks up at Dean, eyes softening with his smile. “Thank you, Dean,” he says so sincerely that Dean feels his cheeks warm. 

“It’s nothing, man,” he says, waving away the gratitude and hopefully his embarrassment. What is he, fourteen? Blushing at a smile. He steps back from the professor, hoping to escape notice. 

“I’m Castiel.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at the name. “Nice to meet you,” he says. 

“I’m new to the department. How long have you worked here?”

“Almost two years now, though only a few months in this building,” he says. Twenty months, exactly, though it feels like a lifetime considering how much has changed for Dean in that time. 

Castiel shifts the ice pack and gingerly stands up. “I was coming in here to make some tea. Would you like some?” 

“Not much of a tea drinker.” Dean looks Castiel over again. He’s wearing dark slacks and a light blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, long sleeves rolled up over nice forearms. 

“Coffee then? This kitchen is very well stocked.”

Dean snorts. Aside from the considerable stash of coffee he just saw in the cupboards, the eighth floor kitchen hosts a large Mr. Coffee, a Keurig machine, an electric kettle, two pour overs, and a small French press. Dean’s surprised there’s not an aeropress to finish out the set. (And fuck Sam for his relentless enthusiasm for coffee; Dean now knows more about the subject than he’s ever wanted to. What’s so wrong with drip coffee anyway?) 

“It is a bit of an overkill, isn’t it?” Castiel says ruefully. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says. 

Castiel’s eyes brighten with amusement, and they both laugh. 

The moment is broken by Dean’s walkie-talkie coming alive: “Floor one through five are good to go. I’m gonna get out of here now. You good, Dean?” 

He pulls it off his utility belt and presses the talk button. “Sounds good, Columbus. I’m just finishing up eight. Drive safe.”

Seconds later, Dean receives Columbus’ confirmation and clips the walkie-talkie back onto his belt. When he looks up, Castiel is watching him with curiosity. “You gonna be okay?”

“Oh yes, yes, of course. Please don’t let me keep you,” Castiel says in a hurry. He seems flustered and that makes Dean smile. “Maybe I can thank you for the ice pack sometime, with coffee.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says. He looks down at where Castiel is holding the ice pack above his hip. “Have a good night then. Pay attention to where you’re going.”

Castiel laughs weakly. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean glances over at the trash-recycling-composting trio he’d been adding liners to and notes that he did finish before Castiel’s fall. So, he nods again, walks out of the kitchen, and rolls the large trash cart towards the elevators on the other side of the building. 

*

Dean’s custodial duties are routine and mind-numbing: he starts with the bathrooms, collects all the trash, puts in new liners, cleans the stalls, wipes down the sinks, and mops the floor. The bathrooms on the upper floors of the building are cleaner than the lower ones where all the classrooms are located and there’s more foot traffic. The custodial staff take turns cleaning the lower floors so no single person is stuck with the bigger messes.

Today, Dean begins with the first floor women’s bathroom. The floor is littered with balled up paper towels that fell just short of the overflowing trash can. The sinks and counters are wet, strands of long hair clinging to the surface. Inexplicably, there’s a pair of jeans folded on the counter next to a water bottle with an excessive number of stickers covering it, the owner(s) nowhere in sight. 

Dean sighs. He got this job at Sam’s insistence. Two Januaries ago when Sam was finishing up his third year at Stanford Law, he casually mentioned that he was moving back to Lawrence to work in the general counsel’s office at the University of Kansas. Dean had whooped and hollered, and Sam had gone on and on about the position, the benefits, the _health plan_ , the italics evident in his voice. “I’m really happy for you, Sammy, but if this is your way of telling me you’re sick, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Dean had said, rolling his eyes at his brother’s geekery. 

Sam had let out Frustrated Huff #32: Dean wasn’t getting it. “I think you should apply to work there. They cover a lot of transgender medical services. Hormones _and_ surgery.”

“No, Sammy,” Dean had cut him off defensively. They didn’t talk about that shit. “What the hell is that school putting in your head?” 

“Deanna, if you’re worried about dad--”

“I said no. Now, shut your pie hole and let me at least enjoy your good news.” 

Dean couldn’t stop thinking about the suggestion, though. Sammy had planted the seeds, and Dean’s mind was fertile ground, quickly growing possibilities. But as swiftly as the hope had grown, Dean’s rational mind had pulled it out like intrusive weed. Universities didn’t hire people who had barely graduated high school. 

That night, he had a couple of shots of whiskey and finished off a bottle of beer before working up the nerve to look at the KU job board. He filtered out all postings requiring more than a high school diploma and found a short list, mostly facilities maintenance and a few bus drivers. When he looked closely, though, he saw that they were all temporary or part-time with no benefits. He modified his filters to only include benefits and full-time employment and found nothing. He closed the browser with a bitter snort, his chest tight and tears prickling hotly at his eyes. One escaped traitorously, and he roughly wiped it away and laughed without mirth. “Right,” he said to no one. Opened another bottle and drank.

Much later and drunker, Dean had lain in bed thinking about Sam. They’d breached the subject of Dean’s gender identity only once before--both drunk, Sam angrily yelling at Dean: “Why can’t you just admit that this isn’t the body you want to be in?” 

“Leave it the fuck alone, Sam!” Dean had yelled back, walking away, furious with Sam’s arrogance and self-righteousness. His heart raced, and he couldn’t escape Sam’s knowing, accusatory gaze fast enough. Sam had always been quick to share his opinions like they were indisputable facts and moral imperatives, but Dean had hoped he’d have some self-control, at the very least, some tact. How long had he known? Who else knew? 

When Dean was three, he had proudly declared he was a boy to one amused parent (his mom) and one disapproving (his dad). John’s displeasure imprinted on Dean and forestalled further boldness on the matter. The gut knowledge that he wasn’t a girl didn’t disappear, though he did learn not to talk about it, even when other kids made snide comments behind his back. 

In fact, everyone in Dean’s life--his father John, his surrogate parents Bobby and Ellen, his best friend Jo, even Dean himself--had steered clear of the subject until one night when he was nineteen and undressing Rhonda Hurley. He appreciatively palmed Rhonda’s 34C cup breasts, thumbing the nipples to hardness. “You have really nice breasts,” Dean said. 

Rhonda deftly unhooked Dean’s bra, and said, “So do you.” 

Dean frowned. “They get in the way.” Rhonda raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and Dean complained about having to deal with underwire, the stifling feeling of sports bras, never getting to sleep comfortably on his stomach. Breasts were the least troublesome facts of female bodies, he went on. There was the constant indignity of periods, for example. Plenty of women felt this way, had rebelled even. Just the other day, he’d been looking over Sam’s homework and read about Amazons cutting off their breasts. 

Rhonda, in a manner that was entirely too casual and matter of fact, said, “You could do that. Why don’t you?”

Dean stilled his hands, already in Rhonda’s pretty lace underwear grabbing handfuls of her fleshy ass, and tried to gauge her tone. Then he shook his head and kissed her. “You’re crazy,” he muttered against her mouth, and then moaned as Rhonda’s fingers brushed over Dean’s clit. 

Later, Dean had recounted the evening to Jo (on the phone because she had abandoned him and moved the hour and twenty minutes to attend Kansas State. Jo insisted it was to get away from her mother, _not_ Dean, screeching, “You _know_ how she is!” Dean knew, but he also enjoyed teasing Jo).

“Listen to this,” Jo started, tone ripe with juicy gossip, “I met a few people through Sherry”--Jo’s then girlfriend--“who are working towards transitioning physically. They’re talking about getting top surgery next year. One of them is planning to go to Thailand because it’s cheaper there.” 

And with that bit of gossip, Dean had landed in Oz. How could the people in his life treat this so casually? Something that Dean’s worked his entire life to ignore, suppress, lock up and throw away the metaphorical key? All his confusions, frustrations, and anxieties blown away to leave a vivid sense of clarity, like the first sunny day after a lifetime of thunderstorms. 

Dean had hung up on Jo shortly after, deciding it was better to ignore this revelation and keep going with life as it was. But the evidence kept piling up, memories of his nineteen years on earth newly framed and startlingly clear, rich with unfamiliar meaning; present moments layered with subtext he could actually read instead of feelings that aggravated for their lack of context. 

Even still, Dean walked through the world as Deanna for another decade, constantly dealing with people who were put off by his choice of flanel and t-shirts instead of dresses and flowy tops, customers at Bobby’s shop who treated him more like a secretary than a mechanic, who felt emboldened to argue cost and “negotiate,” who called in Bobby to get reassurances. (Bobby, though, had zero patience for these customers. “She’s my best mechanic. You don’t like it, take it somewhere else.” And when the customers stuttered angrily and tried to convince Bobby of their case, Bobby flattened them with a look of detestation so devastating that they tightened their lips into a thin line and grudgingly signed the invoices.) Such indignities were commonplace for Dean, but under this new paradigm, they were ever more grating.

So, when Sam’s words wouldn’t leave his head--and most annoyingly, they rarely ever did--he went back to the job board a few days later. There, he noticed the email notification feature and signed up using the two filters. Then he closed the browser and pretended nothing had happened until nine weeks and two days later when he finally received an automated email. 

Getting the job was a small miracle considering the competition for full time work at the university with his level of education. Maybe he’d had a real desperate look about him; maybe someone high above was looking out for him; whatever the reason for the miracle, once he had it, he felt the anvil on his chest lift just a fraction, making it easier to breathe. He breathed easier even after the ensuing endless bureaucracy, difficult conversations with the entire fucking world (really, truly, including any and everyone Dean knew), and a truckload of emotional upheaval. 

“I think we got a pest problem here.” Dean’s attention returns to the present with Columbus’ voice piping in through the walkie-talkie. “Roaches on eight.” 

Dean pushes the button to talk. “How many are we talking here?” 

“I’m counting five, no, make that six.” 

Dean’s mouth turns down in disgust. “Okay, I’ll grab the sprays and meet you shortly.” 

He sighs, pulls off his gloves, and walks out of the bathroom. 

*

“Okay, I think we got them all,” Dean says to Columbus, staring down at the slowly dying roaches lying on their backs, legs flailing in the air. 

Columbus nods, one of his dreads falling into his eyes. “Thanks for the help, man. I hate roaches. They crawl, they swim, they even freakin’ fly.”

Dean shudders. “Me too. How’d we get so many here anyway?”

“There’s been more reports of them since construction started next door. Probably just driving them here.”

“Yeah, probably. We’ll have to file a report so they can check out the rest of the building. This was pretty bad.” 

“I can submit it.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna head downstairs then.” Dean pats Columbus’ shoulder and heads out of the kitchen. Columbus had trained Dean. In between pointing out little efficiencies that saved time, they chatted about their love of cars and food. Columbus had even taken to occasionally bringing home-cooked food for him, something that had forever endeared the man to Dean. 

A few months into Dean’s physical transition, he had overheard another staff member make a crude joke at his expense. After years at Bobby’s shop, Dean was no stranger to trash talk and could hold his own. Only, Columbus had stepped in and shut down the conversation before Dean could decide how to respond, shocking Dean. Afterward, Dean had thanked him, touched by the gesture.

“Don’t pay them any attention. They’ve never had to deal with people policing the way they look,” Columbus said.

Dean glanced over at him. At 6’2”, broad shouldered and bulky, Dean had a hard time imagining anyone trying to police Columbus. “People try to police the way you look, too?”

Columbus huffed out a laugh and glanced at Dean skeptically. Dean looked back--dark brown skin, dreads that fell to his shoulders, tied back and away from his face, hair graying at the temples, suggesting an age older than Columbus’ youthful appearance did. 

“You do realize I’m a Black man, right?” 

Dean’s face reddened, embarrassed, and he looked away. “Sorry,” he said. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Columbus shrug. “I’ve been policed my whole life.” He paused before continuing: “My locks used to be down to here--” he gestured to his waist and Dean’s eyes widened in surprise--“had to cut them off to get this job. Not professional, apparently.”

Dean gaped. “How can they do that?”

Columbus’ expression was cynical. “Policing Black and Brown bodies is nothing new.” He paused, looked Dean over. “Neither is female or trans bodies.”

Dean clenched his jaw in anger, though he could hardly distinguish at who or what. Maybe the university, maybe their coworkers, maybe just people in general. 

“Breathe, Dean,” Columbus said.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Columbus smiled at him, small and friendly. Dean felt the tension slide out of him. “You’re growing out your hair,” he said.

Columbus grinned and patted his shoulder. “Just like you’re changing your body.”

That moment had brought them closer, and Dean still feels grateful for making a friend here. 

*

On his way out of the eighth floor suite, Dean catches Castiel leaving his office, a cup in hand, slouching even while walking. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Castiel. How’s the bruise?” 

“Not as bad as it could’ve been. Thank you again for the quick thinking and ice pack.” 

Dean tries not to react to the praise, but he can feel his cheeks warming again. “You’re pulling a lot of late nights,” Dean says to change topics.

Castiel sighs, playing with the string of the teabag in his cup. “Deadline on a project I’m working on. Conference next week.” 

“A math conference?” Dean teases. Castiel looks puzzled and then chuckles lightly.

“I’m a child psychologist, actually. Not much for math and usually have to pay someone to go over my stats.”

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah, stats...”

“Statistical analysis for quantitative data,” Castiel explains. “I don’t do much of that, though. Prefer qualitative research.” 

Interest waning, he thinks Castiel would get along well with Sam.

“It’s okay. Most people outside of academia glaze over at the mention of research,” Castiel says. 

Is he insulting Dean’s ability to understand his research? 

“I glaze over, too, actually. That’s why I have to keep myself caffeinated,” Castiel rushes on, likely having noticed Dean’s expression and apparently not needing Dean for this conversation. “I wasn’t implying you’d be bored or anything,” he says. “I’m just not the highest functioning after a certain point.” His cheeks redden, and Dean smiles. Flustered professor is a good look on him. 

“Don’t worry about it. At least you’re not lecturing me about legal cases. Sam’s been talking my ear off since he found out he is teaching ‘Law and Education’ in the fall.” 

Castiel tilts his head curiously, reminding Dean of a sparrow. “Sam?”

“My brother,” Dean clarifies. “He’s a lawyer in the general counsel’s office here.”

Castiel smiles. “It’s kind of you to listen, then.”

Dean snorts. “He doesn’t give me much of a choice.” He leans in a little, and Castiel mirrors him. “Don’t tell him this, but some of it is really interesting.” 

Castiel grins, and Dean laughs. “I should get back downstairs. I’ll see you around, Cas.” 

“Bye, Dean.” Dean looks at Castiel one last time and thinks he’s standing a little taller, looking a little brighter. 

*

On Friday, Dean is cleaning the eighth floor again. The kitchen is always quick. The staff generally keep the counters and sink clean, and Dean is not responsible for any of the appliances. He cleans the small tables, wipes down the ledge of the vertical garden, mops the floor. He pulls the trash, recycling, and composting bags out, replaces the liners. He dumps the bags into his cart and begins to push it out of the kitchen. 

Castiel is there, almost running into the cart again. Dean pulls it back before they can make contact. “God, Cas, you gotta be careful,” Dean says. 

Castiel looks startled, hair askew as if he has been pulling at it. Dean’s eyes drop down to Castiel’s mouth--parted slightly in surprise--and then his hands, clutching a mug.

“Sorry,” Dean says. Clears his throat when the syllables come out high and squeaky. The rumpled professor look is even more attractive than the flustered professor look he was sporting a couple of days ago. “Sorry, Castiel,” he says again at a normal, lower register.

“No need to apologize. I’m the one in the way.” He moves aside, eyes on Dean. 

Castiel’s voice is rough and gravelly deep. Dean is both attracted to and envious of it; he is also a little nervous under Castiel’s direct gaze. He can’t decide if it’s the good, “You are fucking hot, and I want this intensity” discomfort or the, “I know my facial hair hasn’t come in fully yet so stop staring at me you fucker” discomfort. He self-consciously rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw. Castiel looks awkward, and Dean relaxes, smirks charmingly. “It’s all good,” he says, pushing the cart past Castiel and parking it around the corner. “You okay? You look a little zombified there.” 

“That sounds like an accurate description. I need to stop tinkering with this presentation,” Castiel says mournfully. Then his eyes brighten and all his attention focuses on Dean again. “If you’re finished here, could I make you that coffee?”

A little taken back by the shift in Castiel’s energy, Dean assesses the situation. He still has to clean nine and ten, but those tend to go quickly because nine shares eight’s kitchen and the tenth floor is event space. It won’t take him more than an hour to finish up everything. “Sure.”

Castiel grins, and Dean follows him into the kitchen. “So, do I ask about your presentation or are you hoping to stop thinking about it?”

Castiel frowns. “Stop thinking about it.”

“That’s doable,” Dean says, leaning against the counter. He watches Castiel fill the electric kettle with tap water. “Are you new to the university or just the department?”

“University. I’m here for the year as a visiting professor.” He puts the kettle on and reaches for the French press.

“How do you like it?” 

Castiel puts the French press down and looks at Dean thoughtfully. “Honestly? I haven’t seen much of the town, don’t even know what’s around.” 

“What do you like?”

“Art, live music, food, good beer,” he lists off.

“Not sure I can help you much with the art, but the good beer I can point to.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow and then reaches out, hand close to Dean’s hip. Dean realizes he’s leaning against the drawer Castiel is trying to get into and moves away. Castiel opens the topmost drawer, full of more tea and coffee than Dean saw in the cupboard the other day.

Dean whistles. “You folks really love your caffeine.” 

Castiel pulls out coffee grounds and a nearly empty bottle of honey. “And honey it would seem.” 

“Guessing that was your contribution,” Dean says, trying not to laugh at Castiel’s dejected expression.

“Second bottle in three weeks,” he says. 

Dean laughs outright at that. “Think you’re gonna have to keep that in your office.”

“It would seem so.” He busies himself with measuring out coffee, pulling cups off the shelf over the sink, and selecting a tea. Asks Dean about local restaurants and breweries.

It’s easy conversation about some of Dean’s favorite topics and he provides lengthy commentary about the local scene. When he mentions meads, Castiel’s eyes brighten with interest. Dean teases him a little about it, and Castiel talks about the awesomeness of bees. He asks about their disappearance and gets an interesting, animated explanation about pesticides, ecological diversity, and Monsanto, detouring slightly into GMO foods and agricultural history. It reminds Dean of Sam’s insistence on buying organic or signing up for a summer CSA delivery, and he thinks he understands his brother a little better. 

Castiel is attentive. He asks about what Dean enjoys, and Dean reluctantly admits that he hasn’t been doing much the past two years. With two full-time jobs, he rarely has time for leisure. He talks about occasionally going out with Charlie or Jo, about LARPing and game nights. He even recalls a tattoo exhibit currently open at the Museum of Art. Charlie had mentioned it to him last week, and Castiel seems to appreciate the information. 

Castiel asks him what he did before the two jobs, and Dean has to actually think about it. He didn’t do a lot even then. Drank a bit (a lot) more, but these days he’s down to drinking a couple of nights a week, mostly when he is socializing. He used to have more sex, but he hasn’t slept with anyone in a long time. He feels too embarrassed to say any of this to Castiel, so he shrugs. “I honestly can’t remember.”

For the first time in their conversation, a silence grows. It’s comfortable, and Dean takes the time to notice their empty mugs. He idly plays with the honey jar Castiel brought over to the table, glances at the drained French press, at Castiel’s hands around his mug. His fingers are thick, nails trimmed and neatly shaped. 

He’s lingering, he realizes. Sets the honey jar right and looks up at Castiel. 

Castiel smiles at him, and they sit there smiling at each other for a few long seconds. Then Castiel’s gaze shifts over Dean’s shoulder. Dean turns around and sees Rachel, one of the custodial staff who cleans the classroom annex, looking into the kitchen. Dean waves, and Rachel walks away without waving back. He turns back to Castiel. “I should get back to work.”

Castiel nods. “Of course. Thank you for taking a break.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

Castiel walks him to the kitchen door. Dean releases the parking brake on the trash cart, and with a last smile, rolls it towards the elevators. 

“Have a good night, Dean,” Castiel calls out after him. Dean turns around to see him still standing outside the kitchen.

“You, too,” Dean calls back.

*

Dean spends Saturday at Bobby’s garage, rebuilding an engine between a few routine maintenance cases. Saturdays are his good days--he gets all the time he wants with cars, and afterward, he doesn’t have to rush off to a second job. Dean knows that technically, he could leave the KU job now that he’s had the surgeries. If he puts in more hours at the shop, he could probably make enough money to cover his medical bills, T-shots, and everything else. It would be tight but doable. But he can’t quite work up to it, so he procrastinates on making any decision at all. 

There’s comfort in staying busy, he thinks. 

As the day heads into a cold winter evening, Dean feels his regularly scheduled Saturday afternoon anxiety key higher and higher until he’s on just this side of jittery. He reminds himself to slow down, focus on doing one thing at a time, like showering off the day’s grime and going through the motions of drying off and staring at his reflection. The surgical scars cutting across his chest are fading. Instead of two solid lines, they are more like morse codes, dashes and dots hinting at what used to be. His chest hair is thicker, too, he notes with pleasure, running a hand over the short strands. The reflection of his hand on his chest, the feel of hair against the pads of his fingers, turns him on, desire pooling low. As if of its own accord, his thumb grazes over a nipple, flicking back and forth till it’s a hard pebble. Entranced, he stares. It’s new, the feeling of self-attraction, seeing his naked reflection and not feeling a strong sense of betrayal. 

His eyes trail down to his stomach, following the trail of thin but noticeable hair, noting the small bit of muscle definition of his abs. One of his hands follows the trail, rubs over his abdomen, reaching lower, to where his cock should have been. He focuses his eyes on the hand tweaking his nipple, a line of heat shooting from it to his clit. 

He works both his nipple and his clit, keeps his eyes locked on his chest, and lets the orgasm build. His eyes want to flutter shut, but he keeps them open, not wanting to lose the visual stimulation. He lingers over the hand working his nipple, trails his gaze to his clavicle, to the stubble on his neck and jaw. He’s near now, so close to orgasm. His legs stiffen, calves, thighs, and butt flex; his breath comes in hard and he has to drop the hand playing with his nipple onto the counter, holding on as the orgasm cascades across his body. He allows his eyes to finally close as the last of the shudders ripples through him. 

When time and space come back into his awareness, he stares at his own reflection. It’s relaxed, eyes slightly hooded. He rubs a hand over the scruffy stubble on his jaw, smiles. It’s nice to look in the mirror and like what he sees in it.

Satisfied, he washes his hands and leaves the bathroom. The clock on his nightstand signals the late hour, and he hurries to get dressed. Pulls open the top dresser drawer, eyes glancing over the delicate underwear he used to wear pre-transition, colorful, lacy, silky numbers that he’s always found thrilling. Ignoring them, he reaches for the plain black boxer briefs. He’s gotten rid of the bras, few that there were, but held onto the underwear even though he’s not worn any of them in over a year. Maybe, at some point, he’ll work out how to wear pretty underwear and still be the man he’s trying to be.

Getting dressed is easy, jeans, t-shirt, flannel overshirt. It didn’t used to be, even when he was younger and his mom had let him pick out his clothes. Mary would follow him to the boy’s section where Dean picked out whatever he wanted. One time, his parents had argued about it in front of him. 

“Why do you keep dressing her like this?” John had asked.

“You try getting her in a dress,” Mary replied. “Besides, she’ll just be fussy the whole time. Let her wear what she wants, John. I was a tomboy at her age.”

“I’m not a tomboy! I’m a boy!” Dean declared. His father’s face turned cold, eyes angry as he glared at his mom. Dean felt small and wrong, wanted to hide behind his mother’s legs. But when John turned his attention to Dean, he looked at him with soft fondness. “Deanna, you know you’re my little princess, don’t you?” Dean said nothing, hands behind his back, pulling at his shirt in the way his mom often told him not to. “Well, let me tell you a little secret,” John said, kneeling down and moving close to Dean. His voice a whisper, tone conspiratorial, he continued, “I love my little princess. She is my most favorite person in the entire world. I adore her!” This last bit was nearly shouted, infectious grin covering John’s handsome face. Dean wanted nothing more than to be in on secrets with his dad, to see him smiling like that, so he nodded slowly, shyly. 

“And princesses wear pretty dresses, right?” Dean nodded again. “That’s my girl!” John exclaimed, grabbing Dean and lifting him into his arms. Dean squealed, and the room filled with John’s booming laughter and Dean’s involuntary giggles. 

John’s words stayed with Dean, and he learned to ask Mary, “Is daddy going to be there?” If it was a yes, Dean chose something girlier, a pink shirt with butterflies, a blue one with flowers, so his father could love his little princess and not be so angry. If it was a no, which was often enough, Dean wore what he wanted and tried not to see his mother’s concerned expression. 

It wasn’t until Dean had to go to therapy and talk about gender dysmorphia that he even saw how he’d been conditioned to perform gender, how every significant memory is filtered through this one lens.

*

Dean’s first memory is of his mom. They had guests over for dinner, some friends of his parents that they don’t talk to anymore. It was loud, lots of talking and laughing. His dad had a slice of pie in his hand. 

“John Winchester, don’t you dare take the last piece of pie!” Mary warned, pregnant belly protruding out in front of her. 

“What’s the pie rule in this house, Mary?”

“Don’t go quoting rules at your pregnant wife!”

“Rules don’t disappear just because of temporary disadvantages.”

Mary glared, one hand wielding the pie spatula like a sword. This is the part Dean remembers with crystal clarity: Mary in her floral dress, radiant, trying to suppress a smile and maintain her glare, armed with a pie spatula. Then Dean watched her face transform in slow motion to one of shock, jaw dropping in outrage, a guttural aborted exclamation passing her lips. “John!”

Dean turned his head to the other side of the dinner table to watch his father lick a fat, wide stripe across the upper crust of the slice of pie, grinning wide. Dean squealed with delight, and laughed as his mother gave chase to his father, who gobbled up pie like his life depended on it. 

Such were Dean’s earliest memories of his father: a man who loved his wife, laughed easily, listened to music and pulled his wife or daughter into his arms to dance every chance he got. A man satisfied with life yet nearly always restless, energy released in bursts of productivity, raucousness, and joy. 

That man of his memory feels like a dream compared to the man Dean spent the majority of his life with: a moody, depressed man who drank himself to sleep more nights than not, who rarely went out or invited friends over, who was severe and strict while simultaneously growing evermore neglectful. 

Dean’s always had a hard time reconciling the two Johns. How could one emerge from the other? How could someone lose all taste for life? But then Dean reminds himself that everything is not black and white. John Winchester went to work every day, earned enough to keep his kids fed and clothed. He kept an iron fist when it came to school, though the only person needing it was Dean. Sam had taken to school like fish to water and effortlessly swam through, winning every honor under the sun. (Sometimes, Dean felt envious of Sam’s ability to garner the affections of everyone around him, including all his teachers. It was like Sam had a community of parents to make up for all the parental love he didn’t get from John. Dean had caring adults in his life, too, probably wouldn’t have survived without Ellen and Bobby, but it was never quite the same.) He does have something Sam’s never had: memories of an affectionate, alive father, a man who still had all his limbs and wasn’t battling demons.

Maybe that’s why Dean can’t stop being loyal, can’t stop taking care of his father. Maybe if Dean keeps showing up, then his dad will remember he has plenty of limbs still. 

On Saturday evening, Dean visits John. He finds his father sitting in the old leather recliner, reading the paper on the iPad Sam got him last Christmas. The TV is on, turned to local news.

“Hey dad,” Dean says.

John grunts without looking up, and Dean’s hackles rise. He can’t remember the last time his father looked directly at him.

“Got you some fresh groceries,” Dean says, walking past to put everything away in the kitchen. He glances around the small space. The sink is pristinely clean as it always has been in their household, but the floor is a little sticky, especially near the stove. The counters are mostly free of clutter, a rack of dishes that never get put away to the left of the sink, a microwave adjacent and a clean surface for cutting things on the right. 

Dean eyes the stove critically, sees a few oil splatters and knows John has not been keeping up with his diet. John had a heart attack five years ago, likely the result of a lifetime of heavy drinking, smoking, and terrible diet. Dean sometimes thinks the real reason is John’s grief slowly shriveling his blood vessels. 

Sighing, Dean pulls out the vegetables--the precut stuff he’ll cook now, some frozen to carry John through the later part of the week, and some chicken breasts, most of which he tosses in the freezer. 

“What have you been eating lately?” Dean yells out to the living room. 

“You don’t have to baby me,” John yells back. 

Dean rolls his eyes. It’s always the same argument. “I see you ate the vegetables. What did you fry?”

His father scoffs. “You call those frozen cardboard vegetables?” 

“You aren’t answering my question,” Dean says, standing in the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room.

“I _pan-fried_ some of those chicken breasts you left, okay?” 

Dean shakes his head, though John isn’t looking. At least it wasn’t deep fried, Dean thinks, at least he made it at home instead of buying fast food. The Winchesters haven’t met a greasy burger they didn’t like (well, with the exception of Sam, who was probably born with good eating habits and is very likely an alien), but after John’s heart attack, Dean hasn’t been able to look at it the same way. 

Giving up on the conversation, Dean starts his routine: he walks to his dad’s room, strips the bed and puts new sheets on, carries the basket of laundry to the basement and runs the machine. He goes to the bathroom and cleans the sink and tub, sweeps the bathroom and kitchen floors, mops. Just as he’s putting the mop and bucket back in the utility closet, he hears the washer beep and goes back to the basement to shove things into the dryer. 

When the dryer gets going, he finally pauses. Takes in a big, gulping breath and lets it out slowly. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding his breath. He hears Sammy’s voice in his head, “Why do you do this to yourself, Dean? He won’t even look at you. He barely talks to you, but you keep going back and doing all this shit for him.” 

“Who else is going to do it? He certainly can’t. He’s our dad!” Dean tells the Sam voice. 

“We could hire help, get him a meal service, whatever. You don’t have to--”

“And what? Let you pay for all of it? I don’t think so. This is cheaper, Sammy. And he’s our dad. You don’t think he needs to see us? See his kids?”

“Not if he can’t be bothered to accept his kids as they are.”

At this point, Dean is done entertaining the Sam voice. He leaves the basement, climbing back up the stairs to the kitchen.

He spends the next 90 minutes or so roasting vegetables, baking chicken, sorting the cooked food into tupperware containers to cool. He prepares a couple of plates and carries it over to the living room. He places John’s on the TV tray and sits adjacent to him with his own. The TV is now turned to Fox news. Dean groans internally.

Ignoring the TV, he asks about John’s week. “Same shit,” his father elaborates. Then Dean asks him specific questions: Did the neighbors stop parking in John’s handicap spot? How is John’s friend, Daryl? What sort of odd jobs did John take on this week? John complains about neighbors, talks about who had new faucets installed, whose water heater broke down and John fixed. They even chuckle once or twice, and Dean feels good up until John looks at him, winces, and quickly averts his gaze. Then Dean feels wrong all over and has to get up. He takes the plates away, leaves them in the sink and walks out to the small backyard. 

It’s cold, the wind cutting through his jacket. He shivers, looks around. Everything is dead for the winter, the grass a wheatish yellow, the hydrangea bushes his mother had planted so long ago dry and golden. He looks up, checks the gutters and sidings, though both are mostly shadows, edges highlighted by the flood light. Takes note of the peeling paint on the stairs, the slight rot around the edge. Creates a mental task list of things he’ll need to tackle when spring arrives. 

When he feels like his heart has unclenched some, loosened with each slow, intentional breath, he goes back inside. He grabs the laundry from the dryer, folds or hangs it all away, makes the bed. He goes back to the kitchen, washes the dishes, puts away the cooled food, tells John about what he’s leaving in the fridge and to eat right. John doesn’t say anything, might not even hear Dean over the TV.

Dean feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. There’s a text from Charlie asking if he wants to grab a drink. Dean smiles. Every Saturday, without fail, Charlie invites Dean to something she’s doing, so he never has to go straight home after spending time with his dad. Dean knows it’s because Charlie was a caregiver for her mother before she died, and Dean appreciates Charlie’s generosity. He thumbs in a quick response, says his goodbyes, and gets out of there.

*

On Tuesday, Dean finishes his custodial shift on the tenth floor, vacuum cleaner heavy on his back. It had been a slow night, no one other than custodial staff around. He’d looked in on Castiel’s office, but the lights were out, the door closed. He’d even taken his break in the eighth floor kitchen, rereading _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , but the entire half hour went by without interruption or distraction. Friday night coffee with Castiel had been fun, more fun than he’s had in a long while, and he had found himself thinking about it throughout the weekend. He’d gone as far as asking Charlie about art related things, looking for suggestions that he could maybe pass off to Castiel. Charlie had looked at him knowingly, but Dean managed to distract enough to not get into the details. 

With his work done, he returns to the first floor and keys into the facilities room. He stores the vacuum and grabs his jacket from his locker. Then he remembers his book, still on the eighth floor kitchen. 

He takes the elevator back up to eight. Some of the overhead lights flicker on as he walks past the front desk towards the center of the suite, where long tables with signs that say “quiet study area” occupy the majority of the space. Past the tables is Castiel’s office, lights on, office door partially open. He smiles and heads for it. Leans casually against the door frame. “Burning the midnight oil?”

Castiel jumps, takes off his headphones, and Dean smiles apologetically. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here this late.”

“Just finishing up and realized I’d forgotten my book in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I noticed that. I grabbed it and was going to email you that I had it.” Castiel stands up and picks up Dean’s book from his desk. It was sitting right up front, and Dean is a little embarrassed to have missed it. 

“How’d you know it was mine?” 

“The inside cover says ‘Property of D. Winchester. Get your own copy, Sammy.’” Castiel smirks. 

Dean laughs. “Sam was always stealing books.”

“Brothers are like that, yes.”

“You have siblings?”

Castiel’s face clouds, and he noticeably shuts down. “An older sister, Anna,” he says finally. 

Dean feels like he should maybe apologize for asking, but before he can say anything, Castiel is in front of him, standing much closer.

“I didn’t have your number, so I couldn’t text you to tell you I had the book,” he says.

Dean grins widely. “That’s one way to ask for my number.” His heart races a little, his smile stupidly big. He tries to reign it in, appear more collected, less eager.

“Is it an effective method?” Castiel asks, smiling, too.

Dean shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Not _the_ most effective, but close enough.” 

Castiel laughs, and the anticipation peters down to a comfortable familiarity. 

“What are you doing here so late?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s smile turns sheepish. “I had a late dinner with one of the deans, and then I remembered I had something I needed to finish, so I came in. But honestly, I’ve been watching YouTube videos instead.”

“About bees?” Dean teases and Castiel’s glower makes Dean laugh. “You know you can fall into the YouTube blackhole from the comfort of your home.” Dean’s not sure why he’s encouraging Castiel to be at home; it seems counter to his gladness for running into him.

“True, but home provides other much more interesting distractions.” Dean notes the gently suggestive tone and feels his cheeks warm. “I should’ve left hours ago,” Castiel says, turning serious. “Let me just check the bus schedule.”

“You take the bus?” 

“My car’s in the shop, so I’m bussing. It’s not too far, though.”

The mention of Castiel’s car distracts Dean. “What’s wrong with your car?”

“It’s an old model. Needed a new radiator.” 

Dean nods. “Well, if it still gives you trouble, feel free to bring it by the shop, Singer Auto.”

Castiel smiles sincerely. “Thank you, Dean.” 

Dean watches him pack up his desk, shoving papers into his bag somewhat haphazardly. 

“I could give you a lift,” Dean says suddenly.

“Are you sure? You’ve had such a long day. You must be eager to get home.” 

Dean waves away the sincere but unenthusiastic protest. “It’s nothing. Plus, it’s cold as fuck out there. Wouldn’t want you turning into a popsicle waiting for the bus.”

“Okay, then. I’d appreciate it.” Castiel is now standing well within Dean’s personal space, bag over shoulder, jacket in one hand, Dean’s book in the other. Dean finds it a little hard to breathe normally. Castiel offers the book to Dean. 

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome.” They stare at each other for a while, until Dean awkwardly tosses a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah, guess we should go then.”

Castiel nods. “Lead the way.”

Neither of them move. Snap out of it, Dean, he thinks to himself. “Get the lights?”

Castiel nods again. He moves and Dean lets a breath out. He pushes off the door frame and starts walking.

*

Castiel lives fifteen minutes north of campus, Dean discovers. When he meets Dean’s car, Baby, he expresses an appropriate amount of reverence for the ‘67 Impala, which shows Dean Castiel has good taste. He then asks about Dean’s passion for cars and how he got to be a mechanic. Dean talks briefly about Bobby, shares a couple of choice memories. 

“On my twelfth birthday, Bobby got me Singer Auto overalls. He had them special ordered, had my name on it and everything. Told me I could help him out in the garage on the weekends if I wanted, was even going to pay me. It was my first real job.” 

“He sounds like a great man.”

“The best,” Dean says. “He can be pretty crotchety, though, likes to put up a hard face. He’s a marshmallow on the inside.” 

Castiel laughs. 

“Don’t ever tell him I said that,” Dean warns, glancing over at Castiel.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What were you passionate about as a kid?”

When Dean glances over at Castiel, he sees a dreamy expression. “I loved art.” 

“Art like painting?”

“Yes. My sister, Anna, snuck me to this public showing when she was supposed to be babysitting me. My parents were away at some church social, and I guess she really wanted to go but couldn’t leave me alone, so she took me with her. It was incredible. The artist had painted a huge mural. I don’t remember exactly what it was about, just the colors and the grandness of it. There were so many people there, waiting for it to be revealed. One painting had brought us all together, and I loved that.” 

“That sounds amazing. Do you paint at all?”

“Sometimes. I have some projects I’d like to work on, but I haven’t prioritized it.”

“Being a professor taking up all your time?” 

Castiel nods. 

“How’d you get into psychology anyway? You sound so passionate about art.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Castiel turn away. “I wanted to help people, especially children.”

Dean pulls into the parking lot of Castiel’s building and puts the car in park, lets Baby idle. He reaches out and touches Castiel’s arm, waits till Castiel turns to face him. Even in the dim light of the street lamp, Dean can see Castiel’s eyes are glassy. “Hey, I wasn’t criticizing your choice to be a professor, man. I’m sure you do help people. Hell, from the way Sammy has gone on about some of his professors, people like you make a huge difference in the world.”

Castiel smiles tenderly. “Thank you, Dean. I didn’t think of it as criticism.” 

“I can listen if you want to talk more about it,” Dean says. Castiel stares at him for a few moments, and Dean wonders if he’s overstepped. “Open offer,” he says to cover up his nervousness. He rubs the back of his neck and breaks eye contact. Then he remembers Charlie’s suggestions. “Oh, hey.” Dean turns to face Castiel again and finds him already looking at him. “I asked my friend Charlie about the local art scene and she had some recommendations.”

“I’d love to hear them, but we probably shouldn’t let Baby idle like this. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid.”

Dean nods. “Sure, I could give tea a try. Good looking out for my girl.” He pats the steering wheel fondly. Castiel smiles. 

*

Castiel’s apartment opens up to a long, rectangular combined living/dining area. There’s a narrow kitchen on the right and two bedrooms on opposite sides of a short hallway off the living/dining area. The living room looks out to a balcony overlooking a forest of leafless trees lit by a dim lamp at the property boundary. The apartment is neat, the walls lined with shelves full of books, a couple of boxes on the floor nearby, waiting to be unpacked. “Nice place,” Dean says.

“Thank you. As you can see, haven’t finished unpacking just yet.” 

“Takes time,” Dean says easily. Castiel instructs him to sit while he goes to make tea. “Nothing fruity,” Dean says when Castiel asks if he has a preference on the selection. 

While Castiel is in the kitchen, Dean explores the shelves. There are a lot of books about art and psychology, an entire section dedicated to self-help. Several shelves hold children’s books and a couple theology. There is a wide selection of fiction, too, ranging from classics to fantasy, all neatly organized by genre and author name. Before Dean can look further, Castiel returns with two full mugs. He hands one to Dean. 

“You read a lot of children’s books,” Dean says. 

“Part of my research. You can learn a lot about how to talk to kids by reading children’s books.” 

Dean nods thoughtfully. 

Castiel walks over to the couch and sits down. “Plus, I really enjoy them,” he adds.

Dean laughs and goes to sit on the couch with Castiel. “Knew this academic persona was just a front.” 

“You caught me. I’m not as important as the title would make it seem.” Castiel’s tone is dry, appealing to Dean’s sense of humor. 

“But you do like to read,” Dean says. He takes a sip of his tea, way too hot, but sweet and gingery. He doesn’t hate it.

Castiel shrugs, holding onto his cup with both hands. He sits back against the armrest, one leg folded on the couch, facing Dean. Dean shifts to mirror him. “My parents were--are--really religious, and they greatly limited what we got to read. I would sneak in the occasional library book, but I never managed to read everything I wanted. So, when I moved out, I started reading everything I could get my hands on. The buying naturally followed once I had funds.” 

“You’re a rebellious one, aren’t you?” Dean teases. 

“Oh yes, definitely. Sneaking books from the library. To read.” Castiel looks scandalized and Dean laughs. 

“Guessing porn and drugs were entirely off the table then.”

“Not at Catholic school, no. _Those_ were readily available.” 

“Catholic school!” Dean exclaims. 

“Catholic school,” Castiel deadpans. 

Dean snickers. “So, tell me about some of your other rebellions.” 

“Tell me one of your’s.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, considering. “Okay.” He shares a story about Jo and him trying alcohol for the first time at the Roadhouse, getting drunk off of a shot of whiskey, and prank calling teachers from the directory their school mailed to parents. Ellen had caught them hiding behind the bar, snickering and shushing each other. “She was so furious. We had to clean the Roadhouse bathroom for a month. And trust me, _that_ is not a job anyone wants.”

“Tough woman.”

“Tough as steel,” Dean says fondly. “Okay, your turn.”

Castiel thinks about it, fingers rubbing the stubble on his chin. Dean stares at Castiel’s lips, the highly defined cupid’s bow of his upper lip, the fullness of his lower lip. 

“I really don’t think I was all that rebellious,” Castiel starts, and Dean draws his eyes back to Castiel’s. 

“That’s bullshit,” Dean says, catching up.

Castiel smiles shyly. “After Anna took me to that showing, I kind of became obsessed with seeing art, in person if at all possible. I discovered the art section at the library and that carried me over for a while, but it wasn’t the same. Prints didn’t have the same energy, so I devised a rather elaborate plan and got myself to the museum. It was the first time I saw a naked man.”

“A naked man? What, did a phedophile flash you?”

Castiel laughs. “Nothing so sinister. I sneaked into the classical arts section, and there were plenty of sculptures.” 

“How old were you?”

“Ten?”

“How far was the museum?”

“A block and a half, actually, so not far at all, though it felt much further at the time.”

Dean shakes his head, laughing softly. “That’s ballsy. Did you get caught?”

“Oh yes. Many a Hail Mary had to be recited, and my parents took away what few privileges I had for a _long_ time.” Castiel’s tone is scornful; Dean shakes with laughter.

After a short pause, Castiel asks, “Speaking of art, what did Charlie suggest?”

Dean remembers why he came up to Cas’ apartment. He puts his mug down and pulls out his phone. He’d taken some notes while Charlie was listing off ideas. Castiel listens attentively as Dean shares what he learned. In addition to the tattoo exhibit, Charlie had told him about some of the local artist communities, which Castiel seems to appreciate. 

“Thank you, Dean. It was really thoughtful of you to get these recommendations.”

Dean flushes. “It was nothing, really... What do you usually draw?” Castiel raises an eyebrow and Dean rolls his eyes. “You know, is it some abstract, modern thing that you require a couple of degrees to understand or is it like people or nature or stuff you can easily identify.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’ll show you,” he says, standing up. 

He leaves Dean on the couch, and Dean wonders if he is supposed to follow. After a few minutes, he starts to stand, but Castiel returns, sketchbook in hand. 

Dean sits back down. Castiel sits a little closer, the outside of his thigh brushing against Dean’s, and offers the book. Dean takes it reverently. Opens to the first page and his face splits into a delighted grin. Inside, there are panels of drawing, comics without words. He examines each panel carefully, easily following a story of two boys, twins, on an adventure. They set about exploring a small town, getting into and out of trouble. There is a cast of friends, both human and animal, that make appearances. It’s fewer than ten pages of drawings, and the last page is half drawn. When he reaches the end, he looks up at Castiel with awe. “This is so awesome, Cas,” he says.

Castiel’s cheeks redden. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“Seriously, I love these characters. And even though you don’t have the words yet, the story is really clear.” He turns the pages back, examines the drawings again. 

“It’s a hobby,” Castiel downplays. Dean gives him a skeptical look, and Castiel looks more bashful. 

“You’re really good,” Dean says honestly. 

They stare at each other. Castiel looks vulnerable, and Dean senses that sharing his art is a risk for Castiel. He wants to reach out and touch Castiel, tell him he’s safe without using words. 

Before Dean is fully aware, Castiel is leaning in, shrinking the space between them. Dean swallows, looks down at Castiel’s lips, licks his own. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean hears the low gravel of desire in his voice, looks at Castiel’s eyes and realizes where he is, who he is. Castiel thinks he’s with another man, and Dean… isn’t. Not completely. 

A wave of fear steals his breath like the first deep dive into a too-cold lake. He pulls back. Looks away, clears his throat. Grabs the tea and takes a lukewarm sip. From the corner of his eye, he can see Castiel’s confused face. Dean sets the tea down and gently closes the sketchpad. “Thank you for showing me this, Cas,” he says. He can’t quite meet Castiel’s eyes. 

There’s a long pause and then he feels Castiel shift. “Of course.”

Dean lets out a breath. “It’s getting late. I should get going,” he says, not moving. He finally looks at Castiel, but he is looking away. 

“Of course,” he says again. Then, as if steeling himself, he straightens his shoulder and turns to face Dean. “Thank you for the lift.”

Dean nods, feeling foolish in the face of Castiel’s formality. He stands up. Castiel walks him to the door, hands Dean his coat. 

“I’ll see you at the office, then,” Dean says. 

“See you at the office.”

Dean leaves without looking at Castiel again. When the door closes, he runs a hand over his face. God, he’s an idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean manages to get through the rest of the week without once running into Castiel. Not because he’s avoiding--he’s really not, even though a very real part of him wants to--it’s just that every time he’s walked through the eighth floor, Castiel’s office has been dark. And despite flirting about exchanging numbers, they hadn’t gotten around to doing it. Not that he knew what he would say if he had Cas’ number. “Sorry I ran out of your apartment when you leaned in to kiss me. I’m not really who you think I am, so I thought I’d save us both the trouble and preempt that bit of awkwardness. Can we still hang out, though?” seems more awkward and pathetic than not saying anything at all.

On Friday, he starts his shift on the eighth floor, telling himself it’s to break up his monotonous routine and not because he might run into Castiel at an earlier hour. It occurs to him that Castiel may be avoiding  _ him _ and not the other way around; he’d certainly have good reason to. But Dean doesn’t allow himself to entertain that thought for long, certain that his sanity will not hold up under the weight of such likelihood. 

When he walks into the eighth floor suite, he finds Masumi rearranging the long tables in the center of the room. The trash and composting bins from the kitchen are nearby, overflowing with the detritus of whatever event Masumi had organized. Castiel’s office is dark. 

“Hey, Masumi,” he says, parking his trash cart and walking over to help her push chairs under the tables. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hey, Dean.” Masumi smiles warmly. “How’ve you been?”   


“Pretty good. You?” 

“Not bad. Fewer evenings to work this semester, so that’s been nice.”

“Noticed the floor’s been empty,” Dean says, pushing the last chair back in place. “Though I did run into the new professor,” he adds. 

“Oh, you’ve met Dr. Novak. He’s great, isn’t he?” Masumi says enthusiastically.

“Seems nice, yeah,” Dean says, smiling. “He pulled a lot of late nights.” 

Masumi nods. “Yeah, he’s been preparing for a conference. Gone all week because of it, too.”

In his obsessive replay of what happened in Castiel’s apartment, he’d forgotten all about the conference. Castiel’s absence feels less pointed now, and Dean is filled with relief that he refuses to examine too closely.

“I’ve gotta head out and meet some friends. It was nice running into you. Thanks for your help,” Masumi says, heading for her office.

“Any time,” Dean says, distractedly walking over to the trash and composting, feeling a strange mix of relief, anticipation and downright foolish. 

*

Saturday, Dean works with Benny on an old Ford. “How’s Andrea?” he asks, staring up at the underside of the truck. A drop of oil falls onto his cheek with a muted splat. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping at his face. He rolls away from the leak, points his flashlight at the source. 

Benny sighs loudly and Dean looks away from the truck, rolls the creeper out and sits up to look at Benny directly. “Honestly, brother, she’s feeling a little defeated.”

For close to a year now, Benny and Andrea have been trying to get pregnant with little success. The strain of the past year is evident on Benny, shoulders slightly hunched, prominent circles under his eyes. “How are you doing?” 

Benny shrugs. “Trying to stay positive. Can’t do nothing but keep trying.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, not until you’re ready to try something different, anyway.”

“She won’t consider anything else, so I haven’t really brought it up,” Benny admits.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean grasps Benny’s shoulder, squeezes and lets his hand drop.

“Thanks, Dean. How are you holding up with this ridiculous schedule you keep yourself on?” There’s no judgment in Benny’s voice; only curiosity.

Dean shrugs and lies back down on the creeper, rolls under the truck and points his flashlight at the undercarriage. “Nice thing about it is that I don’t have time to think about how exhausting it is.”

Benny makes a noise in the tune of understanding from personal experience. “Because you’re too busy feeling it,” he says lightly. 

Dean smiles self-deprecatingly, listens to Benny tinkering under the hood. He likes Benny, always has. Benny and Andrea moved to Lawrence seven years ago, leaving behind a family business in Louisiana that Benny never talks about and Andrea’s only occasionally hinted at. Dean doesn’t mind being in the dark about it; he knows who Benny is from years of familiarity. Benny consistently shows up as a trustworthy, loyal, and considerate friend and colleague. Dean admires Benny’s sense of integrity; he never participates in shop gossip, never talks about anyone behind their back or seems to care about knowing other people’s business. When Dean started physically transitioning, Benny didn’t treat him any differently. Just carried on like nothing had changed. Dean still appreciates that, appreciates Benny.

They work on the truck and talk through the afternoon. Trade stories about cars, food, TV--water cooler conversation, superficial in nature, but it’s easy companionship that helps Dean feel grounded and at ease. Drags his mind away from chewing on other things. It’s a good day.

*

Jo texts him Saturday night just as Dean is getting in his car after an evening with his father. It’s a series of emojis: a video camera, a box of popcorn, a hand with nailpolish being applied, and the poop emoji. A second text shows up as Dean searches for an appropriate GIF response: “Cleared it with Charlie.” Dean finds and sends a gif of Ron Swanson running away. Starts the car with a grin on his face. Jo texts him back right away: “Get your ass over here, bitch.”

“So you can bully me into painting your nails?” Dean texts back, still grinning. 

“And a foot massage,” Jo writes back.

Dean snorts, sends back a middle finger emoji. Starts the car and heads towards Jo’s apartment. 

*

Dean met Jo in the sixth grade. She joined their class in the second week of school when most kids had already decided who their best friend was. Luckily, Dean hadn’t found his people and thought she was cute, blonde hair in a messy ponytail, jeans freshly smeared with dirt like she’d crawled through bushes to get to school, which just may have been the case if the brown leaf stuck in her hair was an indication. Their first period English teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, assigned Jo to his table, directly across from him and next to the Boyle twins who were more interested in kicking each other under the table and scratching their initials onto any solid surface they could surreptitiously reach than Mrs. Jenkins’ lessons. 

Dean stared at Jo, who glared at her notebook, writing hard enough to tear the paper. When the bell rang for lunch, Dean followed Jo, calling after her, hoping to properly introduce himself. She walked fast on short legs, heading straight for the girl’s bathroom. Dean followed, only to be pushed against the door, a pocket knife dangerously close to his nose. 

He crossed his eyes to stare at the silver tip and tried to become one with the door. 

“What do you want?” Jo sneered. 

“What’s your problem? I just wanted to say hi!” Dean squeaked. What was wrong with this girl? 

“Why?” 

Dean uncrossed his eyes and looked at Jo. “Why do you think?”

Jo raised her eyebrows and the knife moved closer to Dean’s nose. Dean’s eyes went right back to the sharp edge, the feeling of being trapped increasing tenfold. If he were to try to get away, she might just cut off his nose in the process; she was that close!

“You realize you’re not allowed to have that, right?” he said as calmly as he could, which was not calm at all.

“You realize I don’t care, right?” 

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. “I was just trying to be nice. Sorry I bothered. Won’t happen again.” He was too scared to call her psychotic, but he thought it. 

Jo looked at him, evaluating. Abruptly, she released him, hands flicking the knife easily between fingers before folding it in half and disappearing into her hoodie. 

“That was cool. How’d you do that?” Dean had been accused of being easily distracted by many people in his life, so it came as no surprise that even though his life was only moments ago in imminent danger, he was taken in by the trick. 

Jo smirked. “Practice.” She pulled out the knife again and offered it to him. He looked at it suspiciously and Jo rolled her eyes, shoved the closed knife at his chest. He grabbed it and flicked it open. The handle was a hard plastic, the blade rubber. “It’s a practice knife. My mom won’t let me have real ones yet.”

“Cool,” Dean said grinning, trying to roll it between his fingers the way Jo said. The knife fell to the ground with a thud. Dean blushed; Jo glared. He bent down and picked it up, handed it to Jo. “Will you teach me how to do that?”

“If you’re lucky,” Jo said, snatching the knife back, tossing it in the air where it flipped elegantly like an acrobat and landed neatly in Jo’s hand. Dean thought she was showing off now, but there was no denying the intrigue. 

That had been the auspicious start of a strange and fun friendship. They bonded over being the products of single-parent households (once they grudgingly admitted it to each other), how stupid the Boyle twins were, how annoying most of the girls in their class were, obsessed as they were with Lisa Frank merchandise and arguing over which one got to claim Justin Timberlake as their boyfriend. They disagreed on most everything, but Dean liked arguing with Jo, who stood her ground, stubborn and overconfident in her positions. It was a perfect match of two misfits, one obsessed with knives, the other with cars. 

With Jo’s friendship, Dean found himself with a second family, like some sort of buy one get one free deal. In no time, he was an honorary third member of the Harvelle household (Sam, the frequent fourth). It was Ellen who took Dean and Jo shopping for training bras, pads and other feminine products that Dean felt too embarrassed to bring up to his dad. Ellen who disciplined them, efficiently adopting parental responsibilities for children she’d never signed up for. Where John ruled with threats, critical words, and the occasional belt (used only on Sam because some fucked up sense of chivalry kept John from raising his hands or his belt at a girl), Ellen used boundless creativity that translated to World’s Worst Tasks, those repetitive, monotonous, often uncomfortable or disgusting realities of daily life. After Dean and Jo mouthed off to a teacher, Ellen had them peeling and chopping all the onions at the Roadhouse for a month (suspiciously, the Roadhouse special that month had been onion rings). The smell of raw onion had permeated his skin, constantly reminding him of his wrongdoing and subsequent punishment. Breaking curfew equalled to dish duty and mopping up the bar floors, length of punishment entirely dependent on the severity of the infraction. Yard work was assigned for in-fighting, usually with Sam, Jo, and Dean on opposite corners of the yard. 

Dean’s work ethic formed during those endless hours of disciplinary measures. He found comfort in the work, knowing that he was being useful even when he had broken a rule or two. He wasn’t wrong, ungrateful, or disappointing--that was John’s narrative of Dean whenever he failed to meet expectations. Most things that Dean liked about himself, he discovered at the Harvelle household, through his relationship with Ellen and Jo.

It was Jo who he came out to first, back when he thought he was a girl who liked other girls. He’d arrived at the Harvelle’s early, excited to tell Jo about what he’d been doing at Bobby’s shop, bursting into Jo’s room without knocking. He was immediately assaulted by a view of Jo making out with Trinity Robbins on her bed, one of Trinity’s dark brown legs between Jo’s pale white ones, one of her hands under Jo’s shirt, the other in her hair. “What the fuck! My eyes!” he’d exclaimed, turning around in shocked embarrassment. 

Once Trinity left, curly afro bobbing down the stairs as she made a cheery getaway, Dean turned to Jo and waited for an explanation. Jo crossed her arms over her chest, stance defensive. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing just barging into my room?”

“Barging into your room? Since when have I had to knock?” Dean nearly yelled.

“Since now!” Jo yelled back. 

“You’re the one keeping secrets!” 

“Fine! Now the secret’s out,” Jo said, walking away to pick up one of her knives, neatly arranged on the dresser. 

“Were you going to tell me?” Dean asked, impatient.

Jo shrugged, then dropped the knife and turned back around. “I like girls,” she said. 

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.”

Jo glared. “I  _ only _ like girls.”

Dean blinked. “Okay… Cool.” And then, “I like girls, too. Sometimes.” 

Jo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

“What? No.” 

“You don’t like me like that, do you?”

“Ewww.” Dean’s face distorted in disgust. “Did Trinity suck your brains out through your mouth or something?” 

“Fuck off,” Jo said without heat, sounding relieved, posture relaxing. 

And just like that, Jo normalized the illicit in Dean and imbued him with confidence. Liking girls became another thing that made them different from the rest of their world but connected to each other. Somehow they never overlapped on who they liked, instinctively maintaining boundaries. In fact, they’d only ever talked about it once when Sam had caught Dean with a girl and decided a little harmless sibling blackmail was in order (Sam demanded rides to the library, hangout privileges with Jo and Dean two times a week without complaint, and all of Sam’s chores for a month). Jo, of course, noticed. 

“What’s he have on you?” she asked as they watched Sam walk into the library.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been chauffeuring him for weeks now.”

Dean cursed and made an illegal U-turn. “He saw me with Shelly,” Dean mumbled.

“Shelly Buchenan?” Jo nearly screeched. “The head cheerleader Shelly?”

Dean grinned, ego inflating to the size of a house. “What can I say? She is no match for the Winchester charm.”

“Gross. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. You’ve no idea where that mouth’s been.”

“Hey, no slut-shaming here,” Dean said.

“I’m not!” Jo hit him hard on the arm and Dean swerved. The car behind them honked. “Just telling you to be careful and use protection. I don’t trust the guys your fuck buddies keep as company. Those assholes will lie about anything and everything. Wouldn’t want to see you with an itchy crotch. Again.”

Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d rather not remember that particular incident. “Not all of us can date gold stars.”

“You don’t even find lesbians attractive, Dean. It’s bi or bye with you.”

“Hey!” Dean said feelingly. “I’m not that flaky.”

“Name one girl you’ve been with who’s ever been with another girl before you. You don’t even have to reach for one that prefers other girls like 90 percent of the time.”

“What can I say? Someone has to show them greener pastures.”

“You’re so full of it.” 

Dean offered her a shit-eating grin, and Jo rolled her eyes. 

It wasn’t until he was in therapy being asked all sorts of questions about his sexuality that he admitted that part of his attraction to seemingly straight women was the thrill it gave him to be recognized for his masculinity. Like their choosing him somehow affirmed that they saw him as he truly was. 

*

Dean parks Baby in Jo’s driveway and makes his way up to the house. The door’s unlocked and he walks in to find Jo already on the couch, half a bottle of beer in. “Started without me?”

Jo shrugs lazily. “Grading is more fun with alcohol.”

On the coffee table are two stacks of notebooks, one pile significantly higher than the other. “Do they all get A’s then?” 

“They’re second graders. It’s all checks and check pluses at this point. Occasionally a sticker,” Jo says. 

No one was more surprised than Dean when Jo announced that she wanted to be a teacher. “Adults are assholes,” Jo had said. “Kids are too, sometimes, but most of the time, they are cute and tolerable.” It’s an oddly fitting pursuit for her. As a teacher, she is more like Ellen than at any other time, Ellen’s lessons in treating kids maturely evident in the way Jo interacts with her students. He’ll never tell her this, of course. He’s not stupid; she’d have his head on a neat platter, probably chopped off with one of her knives. But he gleans a great deal of joy thinking about it.

Dean takes off his coat and heads to the kitchen. “What did you want to watch?” he yells as he gets himself a beer, digs in a cupboard for the microwave popcorn. 

“ _ Parks and Rec _ ?” Jo yells back.

Dean groans. They are on their third rewatch of the show, and while he enjoys it, he wants something different. He gets the microwave going, sips his beer. “There’s a new episode of  _ Dr. Sexy _ I haven’t seen,” he yells towards the living room. 

“I’m behind a few episodes,” Jo yells back.

When the microwave beeps, Dean fumbles with the hot bag and then transfers the popcorn into a large bowl. “I’ll rewatch them,” Dean says as he walks back into the living room.

Jo rolls her eyes and finds the episodes. “Fine, but we’ll have to watch some commercials.”

*

Two episodes in, Jo extends her legs and kicks his thigh. 

Dean glares.

“Charlie told me you asked her for art recommendations.”

“So?”

“Who you trying to impress?”

“No one.”

Jo kicks him again. 

“What? I can’t be curious about art?”

“You haven’t ever been before, so…”

Dean sighs. “Fine!” he says with feigned exasperation. Rolls his eyes and grabs a foot. He tells her about Castiel while he massages the sole. Lays out the entire evening, even the wretched details about pulling away. When he’s done, she kicks him again.

“You’re such a dumbass,” she says.

“What? Why? Also, ow! Stop kicking me.”

“How else is some sense gonna get in you? Dean, if there was no chemistry, no attraction, then there just wouldn’t be a thing. What’s in your pants doesn’t matter. Anyone who says otherwise is fucking transphobic and you know it. Besides, you don’t even know if he’s gay. He could be anything.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know he can be anything, but you know as well as I do that gay guys are usually in it for the dick, not other things.”

Jo’s eyes narrow. “This is about Ketch, isn’t it?” Dean doesn’t say anything. Arthur Ketch was not one of Dean’s finest decisions. He’d come into the shop months ago with a gas guzzler that Dean openly disparaged. Apparently amused, Ketch returned the next day and every other day for two weeks, each time with a different car. All foreign collectibles, not often seen driven on the streets of Lawrence. Tune-ups, Ketch said, not straying far from the car and therefore, Dean, even going as far as to wait till Dean was free to look at his car. While the flaunting of wealth didn’t phase Dean much (Kansas, oddly enough, attracted all sorts of tycoons), Ketch openly flirting with him did. At the end of the two weeks, Ketch had asked him out, claiming he was running out of cars (a lie; Dean later learned that Ketch had three weeks more of cars, mostly American classics that made him wish he’d held out longer). He’d agreed to the date, and after a dinner filled with sarcasm and innuendos, they’d made it as far as Ketch’s front door, Ketch pinning his arms above his head and kissing him breathless. It was there, with Ketch whispering, “I want you to fuck me,” one of his hands sliding down the length of Dean’s torso aiming for something that wasn’t there that Dean told him. Gritted his teeth and pushed out words that wanted to stay behind the enameled cage. 

“Are you serious?” Ketch had asked, hands stilling, eyes searching.

Dean looked over Ketch’s shoulder, avoiding eye contact. “Yes.”

Ketch took a deep, audible breath, pulled his hands off Dean, created space between them. “Dean, I wish you’d said something sooner.”

Dean looked at him then, fear and embarrassment turning into defensive anger. “Guess that changes things.”

“It does. Don’t get me wrong. I have no issues with your gender identity; I’m glad that you’re... living your truth.” Those words from Ketch’s mouth sounded distasteful and Dean recoiled. Ketch continued, “But I’m a gay man, and I enjoy being fucked. You can’t do that for me.”

“Right,” Dean said. Anger and pride kept his stance wide, shoulders back, back straight. “Guess I’ll be going then.”

“That’s probably best. Take care of yourself, Dean.” 

Dean scoffed, and with a last glance, walked through the door he’d barely gotten past.

That one interaction shouldn’t color Dean’s perceptions as much as it does, but it had affirmed everything Dean had feared: he couldn’t be a real man, no matter how much he tried. Outwardly, he might deceive people, but eventually, if they got close enough, they’d figure out the truth. 

“Fuck Ketch,” Jo says, extreme prejudice evident in her tone. “Ketch was an asshole, Dean. An entitled, transphobic asshole. He isn’t representative of everyone. Fuck him for measuring a man by his dick. As if you can’t fuck someone without one.”

“I get read more as just a normal guy these days, Jo. If it can fool everyone, then maybe I’m fooling him.”

Jo takes her foot back and scoots into his personal space. “You aren’t fooling anyone, Dean. This  _ is _ who you are.  _ This _ is who you’ve always been. The outside just matches the inside more accurately.”

Dean nods, mostly to avoid having this conversation again. 

Jo takes his chin, turns his face so they are looking directly at each other. “It’s always a risk when you like someone. We have to be vulnerable and that’s never going to stop being scary. No matter who you’re with.” They stare at each other until Jo is satisfied with what she sees. Then she retreats to the other end of the couch and drops her left foot on his lap. “Now, there’s the matter of symmetry.”

Dean rolls his eyes, blinks away tears and starts to massage her feet. “Another episode?”

“Fuck yes,” Jo says.

“I can’t believe you teach second graders. You have such a potty mouth.”

“Helps me keep the fuckers in line,” Jo deadpans. 

Dean shakes his head and clicks on the next episode.

*

Dean stays over at Jo’s and sleeps in on Sunday. Around 10:30, Sam texts him to ask if Dean wants to go out for brunch. Dean shoots off a quick yes and cleans up in the washroom. When he comes back out, he notices that the notebooks are all in one pile again, this time on the dining table. He walks into the kitchen and finds Jo doing dishes. “Gonna get brunch with Sam and Eileen. You wanna come?”

Jo pauses and looks at him slyly. 

“What?” Dean asks.

“I have a coffee date thing.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “And you didn’t share last night because…”

Jo rolls her eyes and returns to the dishes. “It’s nothing, really. I ran into Trinity.”

She waits for him to connect the dots, and when he does, his eyes go wide. “High school Trinity? The one I caught you with in your room?” 

Jo shrugs. “She just moved back to town and enrolled her kid in my class.”

“You’re teaching her kid?” Dean’s voice is substantially louder now. 

“Don’t be so shocked, Dean. People have children.”

Dean gives her a pointed look. 

“It’s nothing! Really! Just coffee. We’ll catch up. Maybe she’s married or something. Who knows.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “I hope it goes well, kiddo.”

“Don’t call me kiddo,” Jo responds automatically.

“Well, you won’t let me call you Joanna Beth,” he says. Jo glares and Dean chuckles. “Have fun on your coffee thing.” Dean kisses the top of her head and leaves.

After brunch, Dean hangs around his apartment (a respectable one bedroom, not tiny as a shoebox, fuck you very much, Sam). He lounges in his boxers, binge watches a lot of TV, thinks about Cas almost kissing him way too much. 

Somehow, the hours slip away. Dean manages to food prep for himself. Years of taking care of his father and Sam taught him the skills; therapy taught him how to apply it to himself. By the time he gets to bed, it’s nearly midnight. He falls asleep thinking about running into Castiel and what he’d say.

*

Monday, Dean finds Castiel in his office. He is in a dark blue suit that looks slightly too big, even while sitting. The blue tie is flipped backwards, loose at the collar, the top button of his white shirt undone. Dean leans against the door jamb, trying to reign in his nervousness. His eyes move from Castiel to the wall next to him, drawn there by the colorful diagram on a flip chart paper hanging on the wall. He sees his opening. 

“Did you start teaching sex ed or something?” Dean asks, not even trying to suppress a teasing grin. The diagram has five circles, each containing the name of rather erogenous parts of the body: butt, vagina, penis, hand, mouth. Arrows move from one part to the others in a rainbow of colors: mouth to vagina, penis, and butt are green; penis to vagina, butt, mouth are in indigo, and so on. 

Castiel starts, clears his throat. “Hello, Dean,” he says. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. It comes out softer than he intends, and he allows himself a few long seconds to take him in, ruffled hair, soft eyes, the area just under a tired gray, a shadow of stubble, and those full lips that had approached his for one surreal moment a week prior. 

Cas turns his head, looks at the chart on the wall. “It’s a visual sexual history.” 

“What now?” Dean asks, surprised. He looks back at the diagram. There is a hot pink arrow pointing from butt to vagina and Dean tries to figure out how that would work. His brain helpfully (not) provides a visual of an ass grinding back onto a vagina. He feels heat spread under his collar and looks away.

Castiel is up on his feet, walking around the desk to perch lightly against it, feet crossing at the ankle. Dean tries to avert his gaze from the way Castiel’s dress pants stretch over his thighs. Apparently Dean’s imbalance is bolstering Castiel’s confidence because he’s smiling wide. When he speaks, his tone has the barest hint of teasing: “I am collaborating with a few pediatricians and we are trying out a new way to collect youth sexual history. Traditional forms don’t yield accurate data and can be confusing, not to mention awkward and uncomfortable. This is more interactive and kids share more than if they were simply asked if they are sexually active. Gets around the whole, ‘does this count as sex’ question, you know?”

“How--” The question catches in Dean’s throat, and he has to try again. “How does it work?” 

Castiel smiles at him. “I’ll show you if you’d like.” 

“Sure,” Dean says with confidence he does not feel. 

Castiel straightens and tears off a new page from the pad leaning against his desk and sticks it on top of the old one. Quickly, he sketches five bubbles in a circle and fills them in. “Alright, Dean,” Castiel starts, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. Dean wonders how much trouble he’s in for. “Let’s talk about your sexual history.” Dean thinks a lot. Castiel goes on, unbothered. “This visual is a helpful tool to talk concretely about things you’ve done with partners, with the added bonus that once you’re done, I’ll ball this up and put it in recycling. Our conversation is strictly confidential and will remain so. Do you consent?”

Dean tries to glare at Castiel’s attempt at humor, nods meekly. 

The grin that graces Castiel’s face can only be described as self-satisfied and amused. Dean wants to gulp exaggeratedly, but refrains. 

“Excellent.” Castiel may as well be steepling his fingers together or twirling his mustache.

“Your vibe is not setting the right tone, man,” Dean says. 

“I just get excited about my research,” Castiel says, radiating innocence.

“Right,” Dean says skeptically. He waves at the flip chart paper as if to say, “Let’s get on with it.” 

Castiel’s demeanor turns more professional. “I’m going to point out two of the bubbles and you’ll tell me if you’ve ever acted out that combination, either you doing the performing or someone else performing it on you.” He points from hand to penis and looks at Dean. “Like this combination.” Dean panics in a way he hasn’t since he was a teenager fessing up to the adults in his life that he liked girls. It’s so stupid considering he’s been out for well over a decade. 

“We can start somewhere else,” Castiel offers. 

“Uh, sure, yeah. I mean, yes, to that combination.”

Castiel smiles and draws an arrow from hand to penis. Then he points to hand and vagina, and Dean feels his equilibrium return. He smirks. Castiel rolls his eyes but adds a new arrow. Then he points at hand and butt, and Dean suddenly feels ridiculously shy. He barely manages to nod, but Castiel is the picture of professionalism, drawing another arrow connecting hand to butt without verbal or nonverbal comment. 

They continue on like this--hand to mouth, mouth to penis--each question conjuring up things Dean’s done with past partners, hyperaware of the man standing next to him, smelling good. 

“Dean?” Castiel asks when Dean is silent for too long. “We don’t have to keep going. You get the point of the exercise, I’m sure.”

Dean clears his throat, tries to focus. “No, I’m good. We can keep going. Mouth to penis?” he asks. 

Castiel nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Did you use condoms?”

Did he ever; for better or for worse, Jo was more adamant than Ellen on the whole safe sex thing. And after the crab incident that they don’t talk about, Jo didn’t even have to bully him (though she did at every opportunity, even going as far as threatening to sic Ellen on him). 

“Yup,” Dean says. 

Castiel nods, satisfied. He points from mouth to vagina. Dean nods, and before Castiel can ask about dental dams, Dean intervenes, “Yes,” all the blood in his body rushing to his face, like it’s circulated anywhere else during this whole conversation. 

Castiel thankfully moves on without comment. Mouth to butt? No. Penis to butt? Yes. Condoms? Yes. Penis to vagina? Yes, with a small wince that Castiel, of course, notices.

“Bad experience?”

Dean glances at him, feeling called out. “Uhh… sort of.” Castiel waits patiently. Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not my favorite,” he settles on. Over the years, Dean’s discovered that he’s got mixed feelings about being penetrated. He’s done it enough times, even enjoyed it with certain partners, but it’s not at the top of his menu. 

Dean can’t tell what Castiel is thinking. The most he’s getting is nonjudgmental, a near default for Castiel after dry wit, sarcasm, and smart as hell. He continues, pointing to the last permutation, vagina and butt, a small smile gracing his face. Dean bursts out laughing and Castiel’s smile transforms to a full, toothy grin. 

“And that’s how it ends. The kids look a little confused and the tension breaks.”

“Useful,” Dean says.

“The version with patients is a little more extensive, with opportunities to talk about consent, safe sex, sexual orientation and such.”

Dean wants to ask Castiel about his orientation. There’s a little rainbow pin on his bulletin board, inconspicuous but clearly visible. It doesn’t say very much though. Many professors use it as a safe space icon, much the same way pronouns in email signature are used by nearly everyone. Hell, after Dean came out to Bobby, a small rainbow sticker showed up on the garage’s cash register (neither of them acknowledged this gesture, but Dean worked extra hard that week, going as far as organizing the workbenches and parts overnight when no one else was around). 

Noticing Dean’s gaze or perhaps reading his mind because Castiel seems apt at that, Castiel offers, “I’m gay.”

“Gay,” Dean repeats dumbly, stomach dropping, eyes back on Castiel.

Castiel avoids Dean’s gaze and walks back to his desk, drops the markers he’d used for the map into a black mesh cup. “Is it safe to say you are bi?” he asks without looking up. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

“That’s great,” Castiel says earnestly, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. 

“Thanks?” Dean’s never sure how to respond to people’s reactions to these things. 

After a brief pause, Castiel’s face turns solemn. “I’m very sorry if I made you uncomfortable the other night, Dean. You’re the first friend I’ve made here, and I would hate to think I ruined that.”

Dean is taken aback by the apology. “You didn’t ruin anything, Cas. I should be the one apologizing.”

Cas shakes his head. “No, it was presumptuous and forward of me. I shouldn’t have--well, I don’t even know what possessed me. You don’t have to worry about that happening again.”

Something inside of Dean ties itself into a knot right in his throat as a door he’d meant to leave open slams in his face. He nods, affecting casualness that he doesn’t feel, tries to swallow down the walnut lodged in his throat. 

He can’t quite meet Cas’ eyes, so he changes the subject: “So, now that the conference is out of the way, are you going to keep--how did you put it?” he pretends to think and then grins. “Work with ‘decreasing reserves of caffeine’? Terrorize unsuspecting trash carts and all.”

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean’s sass. “Thing about deadlines is that there are always more,” he says dryly.

“Publish or perish?”

Cas laughs, light and easy. “Exactly.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Definitely.” He sounds so certain that Dean feels somewhat hopeful. 

“I’m gonna get back to work,” Dean says. 

Cas walks back to the flip chart paper and takes it down. Neatly folds it in quarters. 

“Here, let me. Your recycle bin won’t get cleaned out till next Monday,” Dean says. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, handing it over. 

“Any time,” he says, looking down at the folded piece of paper. He looks back at Cas, offers a mock salute. Cas rolls his eyes. Dean leaves the office with mixed emotions.

*

Dean’s dated a lot of people over the years. There was Rhonda, his first ‘real’ relationship. Lasting a little more than a year, it was a period of rapidfire personal revelations. Rhonda had a way of pointing out the impossible, like why doesn’t Dean just cut off the breasts that had been a constant reminder of his body’s betrayal, like it was well within the realm of possibility. It was thrilling, if often-confusing, leaving Dean flustered and in denial, trying hard to close doors that had been blown open. In some ways, Rhonda was a tornado and Dean was left in awe of the beliefs and realities she tore down before leaving entirely. 

After Rhonda, there was Adrian Linus, a deputy in the Lawrence Sheriff’s office. A soft, gentle man with a wholesome sense of humor, Dean dated him for two months, which is how long it took for the sex to become routine and Dean to grow bored. He entered his first ‘adult’ relationship shortly after. Lisa came with a readymade family and folded Dean in like the pancake batter Dean prepared on Sunday mornings for her and Ben. She represented second chances to Dean, like he could have the sort of family he almost had before his mother died, so he applied himself fully to the dual roles of partner and surrogate parent. The dream lasted for seventeen months, at which point Lisa announced that she wanted to be closer to her parents. He waited for an invitation to follow, but it never came. Afterward, he felt more grief for losing Ben than he did Lisa, which probably said something about their relationship. 

Right before his physical transition, he dated Cassie, a journalism student at KU. What started off casually, a college girl dating a blue collar mechanic, became serious with Dean saying things like, “I love you,” and writing her into a future that would never be. She decided to move to New York, asked Dean to join her, but for all Dean wanted that future, he couldn’t imagine leaving his family, people who were as mismatched as a set of dishes bought from Goodwill, but his nonetheless. He couldn’t imagine himself in a city like New York, what he would do without Bobby’s garage, if he couldn’t drive Baby. So, he said no and dealt with the hurt feelings from dreams unrealized. 

None of these experiences, however, have prepared him for what’s happening now with Castiel. Without the promise of romance--preempted by Castiel’s heartfelt declaration for friendship--Dean finds himself in something totally new. He’s not entirely sure how to be friends with someone he finds so attractive, but damned if he’s not going to put in a good effort. 

It looks something like this: 

He shows up to work as usual and without any set intention, finds himself taking his breaks in the eighth floor kitchen, eating his second dinner while Castiel drinks cups and cups of tea.

For thirty minutes nearly every day for two weeks, Dean is enraptured. Much like their first full conversation, all subsequent ones are circuitous and tangential, Castiel jumping from interests to theories to hypothetical practical application. On one night, Castiel asks about Dean’s reading habits, which leads to a discussion about sci-fi tropes and Cas’ analysis of popular sci-fi as colonization propaganda. Dean challenges Cas to describe what it would be like to finally be a spacefaring society. Cas suggests everything from mass extinction caused by hostile forces or diseases to humans being colonized. Dean triumphantly declares that Cas just proved that colonization is the most probable outcome, regardless of which direction it goes in. Cas then goes on to summarize numerous plots that involve science fiction without colonization, and then admits that they were all from books he’s read. He recommends authors Dean’s never heard of and Dean gladly takes down the names.

On another night, Dean asks Cas about his hometown and learns the broad strokes of Cas’ life. He grew up in upstate New York, got his Bachelor’s at Amherst College, Masters and PhD at Brown University, post-doc at the University of Chicago. From the casual way he talks about attending catholic schools and private universities, Dean gets the sense that he comes from money. He teases Cas about it, and Cas admits he has a trust fund from his grandmother, that his parents have cut him off in part for his “lifestyle choices.” Dean apologizes and Cas brushes it off, asks about how Dean’s family took to his coming out. Dean tells him about Jo being outed first, Bobby and the rainbow sticker, Ellen’s warm hug and revised sex talk, Sam’s shrug and subsequent attempts at blackmail, though always with the express, unspoken understanding that secrets wouldn’t actually be revealed. He doesn’t talk about his dad, or how he’s had to come out twice. Cas tactfully doesn’t probe.

Dean finds himself spending the hours before and after his thirty minutes with Castiel chewing on what they talked about, coming up with new topics and questions he wants to bring forward, wondering when he’ll have time to read any of the books Castiel recommended. He orders a copy of Octavia Butler’s  _ Seed to Harvest _ . It’s four novels, totaling around 800 pages in small print. He flies through  _ Wild Seed _ , the first of the series, on Sunday, his one day off. When he sees Castiel on Monday, they carry on a renewed conversation around science fiction. Castiel looks so pleased that Dean’s read something he’s recommended that Dean feels warm all over, proudly letting his geek flag fly. 

Time flies for the first time in a long time, every day holding a bit more promise, some new hope that he’s forgotten the feel of reemerging like frost melting in spring. On a Saturday night three weeks after the Weirdest Flirting of Dean’s Life (to Date), which is how Dean’s taken to thinking of Cas’ visual sexual history exercise (he can now think of it without blushing, too), Dean texts Castiel. They’d finally exchanged numbers, Dean casually mentioning the prior failure at the end of one of their conversations. 

“Don’t know if you’re busy, but I was thinking about going to that mead place I told you about, Cain’s Meadworks. Wanna join me?” he writes, heart preemptively leaping into his throat. He returns to chopping vegetables with sweaty hands, wanting to simultaneously hide under the kitchen table and maybe go run a mile (Dean hates running, but anxiety is a bitch that makes him do odd things). 

His phone buzzes, and he nervously wipes his hands on the dish towel hanging on the oven door, picks up his phone. “I do need to stop being a hermit. What time were you thinking?”

Dean presses pause on the excitement bubbling up inside, does some quick mental math. He’ll be done at his dad’s around eight, but if he’s going to meet Cas, he’ll want to shower and get the cooking smells off him. “Nine?” he texts back. He briefly wonders if it’s too late, but then remembers that Cas is practically nocturnal, usually staying up later than is generally advisable. 

Cas’ response is blessedly quick. “That works. Meet you there?”

Dean grins. Sends a thumbs up emoji and represses the urge to jump and squeal like he’s twelve. When he feels calmer, he texts Charlie and tells her he has other plans tonight. Charlie texts back with, “I’ll want all the details tomorrow,” and a winky face emoji. 

*

Cas is wearing a soft heather gray crewneck sweater, black jeans, and a trench coat that seems entirely inappropriate for the weather. It’s the first time Dean’s seen him outside of a suit and tie, jacket optional. He looks exceptionally good. 

Mouth dry, Dean stands up too soon, awkwardly waiting for Cas to cross the room to the table Dean’s picked towards the back of the distillery. He runs a nervous hand over his olive green henley, discreetly tugs at his solid pewter blue overshirt. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says with a grin once he’s within hearing range. Folksy Americana piping through speakers around the bar competes with the thrum of conversation from the Saturday night crowd. 

Cas’ greeting flutters like butterflies in Dean’s stomach. “Heya, Cas,” he says. 

Cas looks him over with undisguised appreciation. Dean shifts under the weight of his gaze, flushing from toe to head. “This cool?” he asks, pointing to the booth.

“It’s great,” Cas says, shrugging out of the trench coat. The sweater contours across Cas’ back as he turns around to see if there are hooks nearby. Finding none, he slides it into the corner of the booth and follows it in. 

“That doesn’t seem very warm,” Dean says, sliding into his side.

“It’s not as cold here as Chicago, so I’ve been reluctant to pull out the puffer jacket.” 

It has been an unusually warm winter, Dean thinks. Before he can think of other inane things to say in his nervousness, Cas rescues him by picking up the menu and asking what’s good. 

Dean asks Cas about his beer preferences, whether he likes sours or stouts, recommends a saison mead, settles on a hopped mead for himself. While they wait for their drinks, Cas asks about Dean’s day. 

“It was a training day. Bobby’s got a new apprentice,” Dean says.

“He takes apprentices?” Cas asks curiously.

“Yeah.” Dean leans back in his seat, getting comfortable. “He’s never formally advertised or anything. Women keep showing up, staying anywhere from a few months to a year.”

“Women?” Cas asks, leaning forward, forearm on display. It’s been three weeks of these tantalizing displays and Dean still hasn’t figured out how to hint that maybe the let’s-be-friends decision was premature. He definitely hasn’t figured out how to come out. With effort, he drags his thoughts (and his eyes) back to the topic.

“I guess the apprenticeship started with me. He taught me everything I know about fixing cars, and then the year I graduated high school and went full time, Dorothy rode in on a motorcycle. Bobby and her bonded hard over the damn thing, and next thing we knew, she was sticking around town.”

“You sound a little jealous,” Cas teases.

Dean hedges, playing with the menu. “Maybe a little,” he finally admits. “Dorothy stuck around for a little more than a year, and then one day just up and left. Must’ve said something to Bobby, though, because he didn’t seem too concerned. A few months later, another girl showed up, this brilliant kid named Priya. Early admission to MIT and everything. Both her parents are civil engineers and against their wishes, she’d deferred for a year. Wanted to get some practical experience, she said. Dorothy sent her. So, Bobby took her on, trained her, too, till she left for MIT the following fall. It’s been like that ever since, they keep coming, always women, and Bobby doesn’t turn them away.”

Their drinks arrive and Dean nods his thanks at their server. 

Cas lifts his glass to cheer, and they clink glasses, take a sip.

“It’s good,” Cas says, setting his glass down on the table. “It must be hard for women to find friendly garages to train in.” 

Dean snorts. “No kidding.” He thinks about the years of micro and macro aggressions he’s had to endure. “It’s not just the other mechanics, you know? Sure, they are territorial and crude, but customers are worse. They second guess, don’t trust female mechanics. Don’t trust male ones, either, but for different reasons, always worrying about getting cheated on cost. But it’s so much worse for women. Fortunately, Bobby’s pretty intolerant of sexism, kind of earned himself a reputation of not employing assholes.” Dean grins proudly.

“It’s no surprise the apprentices keep coming then,” Cas says with a smile. 

Dean laughs. “Sam’s been trying to convince Bobby to teach at the community college, actually. More than just car maintenance for women, which they already offer. Bobby’s dragging his feet, though, talking about how he doesn’t have time for all that.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Sammy’s always thinking big. Gets real excited about tapping potential.” 

Cas coughs, mead spraying as he sputters. 

“Shit,” Dean says, grabbing some napkins from the holder and handing it to Cas. He pulls out a couple more to wipe the table.

“That was embarrassing,” Cas says, wiping his chin. 

“You have a dirty mind,” Dean teases.

Cas glares ineffectually, wiping at his face. “Gets real excited about tapping potential?” 

“I said that about my brother, perv.” Dean scrunches up his nose in exaggerated disgust and Cas chuckles.

“Serves you right,” Cas says. 

They both laugh. Dean admires Cas’ broad shoulders, the way the sweater clings to his shaking form. The sweater is fast becoming the best thing he’s seen Cas wear. 

He takes a sip of his drink, returns his eyes to Cas’ face. “Uh,” he starts, caught off guard by the intensity of Cas’ gaze. “What did you do today?”

“I sketched some,” Cas says at length. “Puttered about the house. Eventually caved and worked.”

Dean gives him a pointed look. They’ve had ongoing conversations about Cas’ workaholism, not that Dean can talk. 

“I know, I know,” Cas laughs. “It’s such an addiction.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says ruefully, all too aware of his propensity for staying busy. 

Cas picks up his half-full glass and drains it. Dean’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. Cas puts the empty glass down. “Okay, no more work talk. For either of us.” He flags down their server, points to both their drinks. 

“Letting loose. I can do that,” Dean says, all smiles.

*

Dean is perhaps tipsy, if he is generously evaluating himself. He’s had two drinks, which isn’t much at all, but clean living and all has decimated his tolerance. He is having a lot of fun, though. Once Cas decided to avoid all work talk, he made a perfect 180 and applied his intense focus to Dean. They revisited Dean’s taste in television, with Dean admitting his rather embarrassing obsession with Dr. Sexy. Cas had never heard of the show, so of course, Dean had to pull up photos, point out the cowboy boots. This led to an argument about appropriate footwear for doctors, which Dean is confident he won, if only because Cas got a little dreamy as Dean explained how sexy cowboy boots were, like he was imagining Dean in them and nothing else. It set his cheeks ablaze, but he also felt oddly proud.

The cowboy theme continued with a hearty discussion about Indiana Jones, Dean pulling out stories of Cas’ sexual awakening in the process. He wondered if he could pull off fedoras; made a mental note to ask Charlie. 

Cas claimed his dating history is brief, supposedly uneventful. For years, he casually dated a guy named Balthazar (Dean made a stupid joke about weird names, to which Cas only rolled his eyes). When Dean pressed for details on what “casually dating” someone means, Cas described an open relationship. 

“You were fuck buddies?” Dean had asked, skeptically.

“That would be an oversimplification. We were also friends and we cared deeply for each other. Honesty was important to us, so we decided to keep the relationship open. We never lied to each other.”

“Huh. Are you anti-monogamy?” 

“Not at all. It just wasn’t suitable for that relationship. And not something I wanted at the time.”

Despite being surrounded by queerness his entire life, often discovering that he was more immersed than even he’d suspected, he hadn’t encountered much variations in monogamy. He asked Cas more questions about it, and somehow this led to a lengthy discussion about polyamory, heteronormativity, and other things that made Dean wish he had a dictionary at hand. The ignorant feeling was brief, however. While Cas fluently spoke the language of theory, he also broke it down to digestible terms, using examples and logic that made the subject as clear as a reflecting pool. The alcohol only seemed to make his intelligence flow fluidly, a totally unfair side effect that Dean grudgingly pointed out and Cas chuckled at. 

Eventually, he managed to ask about something he was deeply curious about: what was Cas’ Catholic school uniform like? Cas dryly said that it wasn’t much different from what he wears to work every day, and Dean’s face may have burst into flames like a vampire in daylight. He recovered enough to shyly compliment Cas on his look tonight, and Cas looked especially pleased.

Now, as he nurses his third drink, he looks around the bar. More people had shown up as the evening progressed, crowding every available booth, table, and barstool, the noise level increasing by several decibels. 

“Okay, bisexual Dean Winchester,” Cas leans forward and whispers loudly, which is to say practically shouts.

Dean looks around to see if they’re drawing attention, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He turns back to Cas, eyes wide. Cas is definitely drunk. “Yes, gay Castiel Novak?” Dean says with some confusion, chuckling. 

“What’s your dating history?”

“Do you have a helpful chart we can fill out?” Dean teases.

Per usual, Cas glares at his sass, but only mildly. “Just curious about what your type is.”

You, my type is you, Dean wants to say. By some miracle, he holds his tongue, smirks instead. “Well, we have been talking about sexy doctors, cowboys, and adults who wear Catholic school uniforms for their profession,” he says boldly.

Cas’ cheeks redden, and Dean grins. 

“I thought you liked what I’m wearing tonight,” he mumbled, sitting back. It’s just audible enough over the loudness of the bar.

“Oh, I do,” Dean says, tone dripping with suggestiveness. 

The color spreads much to Dean’s delight. Cas looks at his wristwatch and Dean tilts his head to read the sideways face. It’s nearing midnight. 

“I took a Lyft,” Cas says, apropos of nothing. He looks directly at Dean. “Would you give me a ride back?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” 

*

They stay at the bar for another half an hour. Dean sets aside his mostly untouched third glass, switching to water, while Cas finishes off his fourth. They do a little people watching, but mostly, they surreptitiously stare at each other, the tension pleasantly thick.

Eventually they split the check, Cas protesting the whole way, and make their way outside. The temperature has dropped several degrees, and Cas shivers loudly as they make their way across the parking lot to the Impala. Dean rubs Cas’ back, a poor attempt at warming him up. 

“Remind me why I didn’t move to a warmer climate,” Cas says grumpily. 

Dean manually unlocks the passenger side door before walking around and opening the driver’s side. “You couldn’t imagine your life without some midwestern charm?”

Cas slides in and closes the door. “The midwest has charm?” he asks, rubbing his hands together.

“Hey!” Dean says as he gets Baby going. “We got plenty of charm.”

“Sorry,” Cas says bashfully. 

Dean laughs. “Come here,” he says, opening his arms. Cas slides across the bench and buries his face in Dean’s chest. Dean hears the zipper of his leather jacket come undone, and then feels Cas’ face press closely to his chest. He chuckles. “Who knew you were such a baby about the cold?”

Cas’ protest is muffled by Dean’s henley. 

Dean holds him like this, awareness of their cozy position seeping into him like the cold entering his jeans-clad thighs. Cas must notice, too, because he suddenly stills his attempts to burrow further into Dean’s clothes, slowly dragging his nose up Dean’s chest and into the crook of his neck.

Dean’s breath catches and his hand moves of its own accord, gliding up Cas’ back, covered as it is in the ridiculously light trench coat, and onto the nape of his neck. 

“Dean,” Cas says. His breath tickles Dean’s throat.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, surprised that his voice isn’t as choppy as he feels.

Cas pulls away enough to look at Dean’s face, eyes focused on Dean’s lips. Dean licks it unconsciously. “I’m going to kiss you now if that’s okay.”

Dean must have nodded, he’s not entirely sure; his brain experiences a white out at Cas’ declaration, shortening all systems. The next thing he is aware of is Cas’ mouth against his, kissing him slow and warm. Dean kisses back, feeling tingly and electric all over. Parts his lips when Cas’ tongue seeks entry. Cas’ groans when the kiss gets wetter, his hand sliding into Dean’s hair. 

Deepening the kiss, Dean shifts in his seat, tries to get closer. One of Cas’ hands clutches Dean’s henley, palm pressing against the flat expanse of Dean’s chest. Dean moans into Cas’ mouth at that, grabs for Cas’ hips, fingers touching the soft wool of his sweater. 

Cas palms his chest, pressing firmly enough to make Dean tremble. God, this is so much better than he’s imagined and he has imagined it quite a bit. Spent hours probably thinking about what it would feel like, what they might end up doing.

Remembering this brings Dean back to himself. He lightens the kiss, gently starts to pull away. “Cas,” he says. “Cas.”

“Hmm.” Cas’ mouth moves to Dean’s chin, goes up his jaw. 

“Oh dear God,” Dean hears himself say, eyes closing at the feel of Cas’ tongue running over his stubbled jaw. If he doesn’t say something now, it will be too late and he’s not sure he can handle a rejection any further down the line. He’s not sure if he can handle a rejection at all, but maybe at this point it won’t be quite so devastating. 

“I have to tell you something.” With effort, he puts some distance between them. Holds Cas at arms length. Cas looks concerned. Dean feels the cold surrounding him again, shivers now that he’s not sharing Cas’ body heat. He reaches over and turns the heat on at full blast. Takes a deep breath.

“Dean?” Cas says. 

“There’s something I need to tell you about me,” Dean says, looking mostly forward now. “I’m trans.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cas sit back, though he doesn’t move too far away or stop looking at Dean. “Okay.” Dean chances a glance. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t know if that changes anything,” he says nervously. 

“Why would it?” Cas asks confused. 

“Well, you’re gay. You like dudes and all,” Dean says. There is a small sliver of hope trying to push its way through, but Dean staunchly refuses to let it in. This is hard enough; he doesn’t know if he can have his hopes raised even a little right now. 

“I like you, Dean,” Cas says, so simply and sincerely that Dean feels his defenses soften. “Unless--unless you have another name you’d prefer. Have you picked one out?”

“What?” Dean asks. Cas seems to have jumped logic, intuitively connecting dots that Dean can’t see yet. 

“I want to use the right name and pronouns. What are yours? I should’ve asked sooner instead of just assuming. Rookie mistake, I’m sorry.” 

Dean mulls over the words. “You think I want to transition to living as a woman?”

“You don’t?” Cas seems uncertain now, and Dean laughs loudly. “Dean?”

Dean continues to laugh for a solid minute, one arm leaning into the steering wheel, his other hand wiping at his eyes as tears escape. “Oh Cas, you just made my night.” 

Cas rubs his face. “God, this is embarrassing.”

“No, no, seriously. Just, thank you. You made my night.” How ironic that he’s passing so well that Cas thought he was a transwoman.  _ Not passing, it’s who you are _ , Jo’s voice echoes in his head, as annoyingly constant in Dean’s psyche as Sam, and Dean sobers a little. 

“I thought the kiss did that,” Cas says. 

Dean sits up straight, mouth dry. “Yeah, that, too,” he says, voice shaky. 

Cas transforms in front of him, smooth confidence oozing from his smirk, his eyes. He scoots closer, leans forward and kisses Dean. Dean relaxes into it, opening for Cas. Cas gently takes Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth, swipes a hot, wet stripe over after. Dean groans as Cas’ lips trail down to his chin, bite lightly at his jaw. He’s so turned on; he can feel the wetness between his legs.

Cas licks his way back into Dean’s mouth, kisses him deeply. 

This time, it’s Cas who pulls away incrementally. “Drive me home?” he breathes against Dean’s mouth. Dean nods dumbly, kisses Cas again. Cas chuckles. 

Quite reluctantly, Dean pulls away. He lets out a big breath. “Okay, put your seatbelt on,” he says, pulling his own belt across his lap. He turns on the headlights, puts Baby in reverse and peels out of the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part next Monday. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of suicide and childhood sexual abuse (pertaining to minor characters). Please take care of yourself if you choose to read.

After midnight, there are few cars on the road and Dean drives more than ten over the speed limit. He keeps wanting to take his eyes off the road and glance at Cas, maybe reach over and touch him. Instead, he blindly reaches for a tape and sticks it into the deck. Turns out to be Zeppelin. He chances a glance at Cas, who is smiling. “The classics, huh?”

“Is there anything else?” Dean says cockily and shifts in his seat for how awkward it sounds to his ears. Less cocky and more overcompensating maybe. He briefly closes his eyes in embarrassment. “Uh...what kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t listen to music much,” Cas says.

“Really?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cas shrug. “It wasn’t big in our house, and I liked quiet while I read.”

“What about the radio? Or parties?”

“Sure, but I didn’t pay much attention to those.”

“You were a strange teenager, weren’t you?” Dean asks, aiming for humor.

“I was a depressed teenager,” Cas says. Dean does glance over at him then, sees Cas catching himself like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“I’m so--”

“If it’s alright with you, Dean, I’d rather not talk about that tonight.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says automatically, staring straight ahead. The word ‘tonight’ bounces around in his head. There may be a tomorrow when Cas will open up, and that’s not so bad at all. 

It’s quiet in the car and Dean searches for something other than Zeppelin to fill the silence. “I got into the classics because of my parents,” Dean says.

Cas looks over at him with interest and Dean launches into some of his earliest memories of his parents, sitting together on the front porch, music blasting from the stereo in the living room. He leaves out the part where John destroyed the patio set one drunken night after Mary died and how no one in their family has sat around on the porch since. 

*

“Here you are,” Dean says, nervously putting Baby into park but letting the engine idle. People change their minds, say yes when they really mean to say no. He waits, giving Cas a chance to back out. Dean wouldn’t blame him; he would understand even.

“Would you still like to come in?” Cas asks.

Dean huffs out a laugh, anxiety leaving his body all at once. “Yes.”

Cas leans forward and pecks Dean on the lips. He’s on the other side of the bench before Dean opens his eyes. “Come on, it’s cold.”

*

Castiel’s sofa is soft and plush. Dean finds himself stretched out on the sectional, Cas’ weight pressing him down, Cas’ mouth working at Dean’s neck. A shift, and Cas falls into the space between Dean’s legs, the warmth of Cas’ erection against Dean’s inner thigh. Dean shifts some more, hips coming up off the couch until they are at optimal position. Cas groans, bites down gently on Dean’s neck, and grinds down. It’s polite, Dean thinks, the pressure that Cas uses. Dean presses up boldly, as if to say,  _ you don’t have to restrain yourself _ . 

Cas pulls up into a half-push up, upper body lifting and hovering over Dean. 

“Something wrong?” Dean asks drowsily.

“Not at all,” Cas says. Leans down to drop a kiss on Dean’s lips. He sits up more fully after that, one leg dropping down to the floor for stability. 

Dean lifts himself up on his elbows, stares questioningly at Cas. 

“I’d like to take things a little slow,” Cas says. 

“Slow,” Dean says, feeling slow himself. His brain comes back online, gradually gaining awareness of his mild state of undress (he lost the overshirt and shoes a while ago, his t-shirt had rucked up his abdomen). “Sure, we can do slow.” He tries not to think about the reasons for slow, insecurities about his gender wanting to surface.

Cas smiles, leans forward and kisses Dean softly. “I think it will be hard for me given how attractive I find you--” Dean’s breath catches in his throat at this soft declaration “--but I made a...promise of sorts, to myself, to take things slow the next time I found myself in a position like this.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes. “Yeah, that’s cool. We can do slow.”

“I’m glad,” Cas says. 

“So, slow,” Dean says against Cas’ lips, they’re so close now. “You want to keep making out tonight?” 

“Definitely.”

*

Dean swats at air, trying to get away from the persistent buzzing near his ear. It stops, and he contentedly burrows further into his pillow. Then it starts again. He groans, swats at it some more. The buzzing doesn’t go away, and irritated, Dean surfaces to consciousness. His phone is vibrating, the noise amplified by the wood of his nightstand. A look at the clock has him fully awake. “Shit, Charlie,” Dean says, picking up the phone. “Hey, Charlie,” he says apologetically.

“Hey yourself,” Charlie says. She doesn’t sound angry or annoyed, Dean is grateful to realize. “Where are you bud?”

“Late night, sorry, Charlie. I can be there in--” he looks at the clock again, “half an hour. Just gotta shower.”

Charlie laughs. “It’s cool, take your time. Want to meet at Sal’s? I’ll go hang out there since it’s kind of cold outside.”

“Breakfast is on me,” Dean promises. He hangs up and heads to the bathroom. 

He undresses while the water warms up. Looks in the mirror and notes the small hickey on his neck. Smiles big. So, that really happened. 

*

Dean lays out the parts in a neat row, large pieces of Baby disassembled and lined up vertically. The day is bright and cold, sunlight streaming in through the rectangular windows high on the garage wall. Charlie sits on a cushion on the floor, legs crossed at the ankles, sketching the pieces, her kit of pens, pencils, and charcoal within easy reach. Dean is tempted to peek at what she’s done, but refrains. Focuses instead on taking apart Baby. 

It’s hours of work--disassembling and reassembling the engine. Longer with Charlie sketching, even if her hand flies around. She’s been photographing everything, too, so she can reference it later.

The idea to sketch Baby’s engine had come up months ago. Charlie had asked Dean about Baby, how he’d acquired the car (a bitter story about John saving the Impala for Sam, who had little interest in cars and refused to accept it, and John grudgingly giving it to Dean on his twentieth birthday). Somehow the conversation with Charlie led to a tattoo idea for Dean, something for his chest (he’d reluctantly expressed his insecurities about the surgical scars). Charlie had suggested the engine, offered to sketch it for him, and they’d sealed the deal with a couple of shots. 

Now, they sat for the final sketching session, Charlie wanting to capture some of the details of the various mechanisms. Charlie works quietly, her usual bubbly personality and vibrating energy channeled to her craft. Dean’s never known anyone who could concentrate like that, pull in all their excess energy and focus. He watches Charlie with appreciation.

She’d grilled him over breakfast, expertly extracting details of his first date with Cas. Dean smiles, thinking about it again, hand unconsciously going to his neck to touch the tender skin. True to their agreement, they had stuck to kissing and groping each other over their clothes in a manner Dean hadn’t done since he was a teenager. He’d driven home around three in the morning having had the most fun he’d had in years. 

“I need a break,” Charlie says, stretching. 

“Hungry?” Dean asks, going to the small fridge where he’d stuffed their takeout order from the diner. 

“You anticipate my every need, handmaiden,” Charlie says in her magisterial voice. “Can we eat outside? I need to feel the sun,” she asks, normal and chirpy.

Dean laughs. “Sure.” 

They walk outside and sit on the bench facing the garage parking lot. The winter sun is warm on Dean’s face, and there’s no wind to bring the temperature down. It’s Dean favorite kind of winter day. 

They eat their sandwiches and talk about Charlie’s travel plans, the tattooing expos she’s got lined up. Charlie’s got thousands of followers on Instagram and Dean’s seen people drive hundreds of miles just to get something done by her. He feels lucky that she’s willing to spend so much time on his tattoo.

A loud rumbling interrupts their conversation and draws their attention towards the road. Dean immediately recognizes the Indian Junior Scout, stands as the motorcycle pulls into the parking lot. “Dorothy,” Dean says once the engine quiets down, surprised.

Dorothy takes off her helmet and gracefully gets off the bike. “Dean,” she says, grinning. 

Unaware that Dorothy had been keeping tabs on life in Lawrence, Dean raises his eyebrows. She ignores his curiosity; instead, walks over and shakes his hand, formal as ever. Then she turns her attention to Charlie, who is now standing next to Dean. “Hello,” she says, offering Charlie her hand.

Charlie giggles, and Dean’s eyes widen. “Oh brother,” he mutters to himself, as Charlie falls under Dorothy’s charm. “What brings you to town, Dorothy?” Dean says, drawing the attention to himself and away from Dorothy’s thieving nature. First Bobby, now Charlie. Will it never end?

“There’s no place like home?” 

Dean narrows his eyes. 

“Calm down, Dean. I just missed the place. Wanted to see family and all. Bobby said I could come back whenever, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Dean mutters.

“So, you’ll be sticking around a little?” Charlie asks hopefully.

“Definitely thinking about it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go put Baby back together, Charlie. I think we’re done for the day.”

Charlie barely acknowledges him and Dean sighs in annoyance. He could spend more time out there sussing out what Dorothy is doing here or how long she plans to stay, but he gets the sense that he’ll get little out of her. She’s never been one to settle on a straight answer when asked about her plans. Probably fucks with her aura of mystery, Dean thinks uncharitably. 

Once inside, he pulls out his phone and stares at the blank home screen. Wonders if Cas is up and about already. 

He decides to text Sam about Dorothy’s arrival, but jumps when the phone vibrates mid-text. 

“I had fun last night. Are you free for dinner and a movie at my place tonight?” the text reads. 

Dean grins. “You can cook?” he sends back. 

“I was going to get takeout,” Cas writes back. 

“Well since my life’s not in immediate danger, I’ll see you tonight,” Dean writes back. Cas sends back an eye roll emoji. Dean chuckles. 

He returns to his text to Sam. Sam’s quick to respond: “Dorothy’s back? Since when? Where’d you see her?” 

Dean rolls his eyes and starts composing a long message about how inappropriate it is for Sam to be harboring a crush on another woman when he’s with a gem like Eileen. 

*

Not even Dorothy and her wiley ways could dampen Dean’s mood on Monday, even if she’d managed to squirm her way into the garage within a day of her arrival. Sure, Dean had been appalled when Bobby had hugged her close, offered her newly laundered overalls, and set her to work, but Dean had played nice. 

It’s not that he dislikes Dorothy; she’s a good mechanic and an all around decent person as far as Dean can tell. He’s just never liked the way she encroached on what Dean thinks of as his, even when they aren’t exclusively  _ his _ . Like Bobby’s affections or Sam’s admiration. He wasn’t a big fan of how she left at a moment’s notice, either, flighty and careless of what she might leave behind. All in the name of adventure that Dean doesn’t understand. 

So, all day, he employs a time-tested tactic. He distracts himself with more pleasurable things. Replays memories of Cas’ body weight on him, kissing his mouth till his (their?) lips were a little numb and much in need of a break. Cas’ hands had drifted under Dean’s shirt, never to do more than stroke his back or cup his waist, though it had set Dean shivering in anticipation. Dean had taken the move as permission and returned the favor, which had the lovely effect of Cas grinding down against him exquisitely. 

Dean’s still thinking about the night when he gets to KU, whistling a little to himself. He pulls out his phone and checks his KU inbox once he’s inside the building. He rarely receives anything of importance on it, but he’s developed a habit of checking at least once a day. There’s an email from his supervisor, Zachariah, requesting to see him before his shift starts. 

Dean pauses near the door of the facilities room and frowns. Zachariah’s office is well across campus, and it’s unusual for him to request an in-person meeting on such a short notice. Dean types out a quick reply, letting him know he’ll be there in fifteen, and heads back out into the cold.

When he reaches the office, Zachariah is seated behind his desk, typing at the computer. Dean knocks on the open door. 

“Dean, thanks for coming out here so quickly,” he says. “Please, have a seat.”

“Sure. What’s going on?” 

Zachariah shifts in his seat, as if he’s uncomfortable. “There’s been a complaint filed against you.” 

Taken aback, Dean says, “What sort of complaint?”

“That you have been misappropriating university resources,” Zachariah says. 

“Misappropriating? Like stealing? What does that mean?”

“Someone witnessed you repeatedly taking long breaks instead of working, drinking coffee or tea that belongs to other offices.”

Dean sits back as understanding dawns. “You mean me eating my dinner?”

“On a floor that’s not for facilities to utilize.”

“I was with a faculty member who invited me to use the space. And I wasn’t drinking their coffee, just eating my dinner.” 

Zachariah puts his palms forward, as if to appease Dean. 

“Seriously, I’ve only taken the thirty minute  _ unpaid _ break we’re all  _ required _ to take.”

“Dean,” Zachariah says, looking flustered. “I like you, Dean. You work hard, and I appreciate your work ethic. I haven’t had complaints about you before either. Just consider this the first warning and watch how you utilize resources, okay?” 

“You don’t believe me,” Dean states flatly. 

Zachariah leans forward, forearm on the desk, expression conciliatory. “I’m taking your word for it, Dean, but I’m also telling you to be mindful of appearances.”

“Appearances?” 

Zachariah shrugs, as if he’s searching for the right words. “We have to remain professional.”

“Me taking a break is unprofessional?” Dean asks. 

Zachariah narrows his eyes, his ire finally surfacing. “You may take your breaks, but please refrain from any improprieties, such as using office space that does not belong to the custodial staff. That includes kitchens on other floors. You have a staff room in the building for that very purpose. Got it?” 

Dean grits his teeth at the reprimand. There isn’t much he can say to Zachariah. He’s already decided who to believe and Dean isn’t sure what he would accomplish by arguing. He reigns in his irritation and says, “Alright. Can I get back to my shift?”

“Yes, of course,” Zachariah says, standing up and offering Dean his hand. Dean looks at it for a moment, not wanting to shake. Seeing no other option, though, he shakes Zachariah’s hand and quickly lets go. 

One of his colleagues had reported his interactions with Cas. Dean can’t quite wrap his mind around it, around why they would do that. He’s always been careful about doing the work, never slacking off and needing someone else to cover for him, even after surgery when it had taken him weeks to get his full range of mobility back. He also didn’t think he’d offended anyone. Other than Columbus, he seldom spoke to anyone else because he rarely saw them. So, who would do this? Why? And why go directly to Zachariah instead of coming to him? 

Then there’s Zachariah, giving him a ‘warning' and talking about ‘appearances' and ‘improprieties.’ What does any of that even mean? A memory of Columbus showing Dean how long his locks used to be surfaces. Was it Zachariah who suggested that Columbus cut his locks for the sake of appearances? In some distorted, racist sense of professionalism? 

He’s mulling all this over when he keys into the facilities room. He comes to a stop at the tense scene inside. 

“Not all of us want to be invisible elves,” Columbus is saying. 

Rachel glares at Columbus. “Excuse me?”

Columbus is relaxed in his chair, but Dean can see the tightness around his mouth, the firm expression that signals Rachel has hit a nerve. “If you were one of those people upstairs working during the day, would you not talk to your coworkers? Trade water cooler gossip? Take breaks? Just because I clean up after these people doesn’t mean I can’t be their peer. I’m their colleague, and they will see me and treat me as a fellow human and not some invisible servant taking out their trash and cleaning up after them.”

They are talking about him, Dean realizes in shock. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Rachel says, pale complexion reddening. “Not all of us have the luxury of full-time employment. We can’t afford to do twice the work because  _ some _ people are off socializing.” She darts a glance at Dean.

“Hey! I carry my load and get my floors clean. I’ve never needed anyone to cover for me,” Dean intervenes. 

“Maybe, but it’s only a matter of time,” Rachel says, pulling out her utility belt and closing her locker.

“So you got to Zachariah to what? Preemptively get me written up? Open up a new full-time position since those are so rare?” 

Rachel doesn’t say anything. Dean looks between her and Columbus. “Is this for real?” He’s not sure who he’s asking. Only Columbus meets his eyes. 

“Let’s just get to work, Dean,” Columbus says standing. 

Rachel looks at them both, expression unreadable and unfriendly. “Whatever,” she says, walking out of the room. 

Dean watches Rachel leave, then turns back to Columbus. “She reported me,” Dean states.

“I think so.” Columbus shakes his head. “She’s probably in a tight spot, too. It’s not easy working part time at a job like this. Doesn’t make her actions right, of course, but I can understand it. I’m sorry you had to deal with it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It’s an evening of surprises, though it probably shouldn’t be. Columbus has always been perceptive and kind. “Thanks, man,” Dean says. 

Despite Columbus’ reassurances, feelings of unease and anger linger while Dean works, the conversation with Zachariah and the argument between Columbus and Rachel replaying over and over in his head. Was he doing something wrong? Should he be more… more what? He just doesn’t know. 

Steeped in anger, annoyance, and uncertainty, he works through the night without taking a break. 

*

Dean finds Cas in his office at the end of his shift, furiously typing away. He seems so engrossed in writing that Dean almost turns away, but the large bouquet of yellow roses on Cas’ desk stops him. “Someone’s treating you good,” Dean says. 

Cas looks up. “Dean, hello.” He looks at the flowers and rolls his eyes. “It’s apparently Valentine’s Day.”

“Shit,” Dean says. “We’re not--”

“No, no, definitely not,” Cas hurries to say. 

“Right.” Dean shifts awkwardly. “So, you… you got flowers.” He smiles and hopes it doesn’t seem too fake. The roses are prettily fixed amidst green winter foliage, no cheap baby’s breath to mar the delicate arrangement. “That’s, uh, that’s nice.” 

Cas shakes his head, laughing softly. “It’s nothing. Balthazaar sends them every year. It’s one of two dates he remembers, strangely enough.” 

Cas sounds wistful, and Dean feels a little nauseous. Of course Cas has someone to send him flowers on Valentine’s Day, especially when Dean can’t even be bothered to remember something as stupid and commercialized as fucking Valentine’s Day. Suddenly, he recalls the conversation they had about Balthazaar and monogamy. Maybe they are still in an open relationship, and this thing with Dean is just a side thing, a layover not a final destination. The acid in Dean’s stomach bubble uncomfortably. Dean’s so done with this day and its shitty revelations. 

“We’re not together, haven’t been for years,” Cas continues, “This is just something he does, honestly.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself or your relationships to me, Cas.” 

“I know,” Cas says. “But I want it to be clear.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, feeling a little shaken. The emotions today, for fuck’s sake. “Okay.” They smile at each other for a moment. “Hey. I don’t want to interrupt whatever flow you’ve got going here,” he says, waving expansively at Cas’ desk. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Cas says. 

“Cool. I’ll let you get back to it then,” Dean says, hovering near the door before impulsively crossing the room and dropping a chaste kiss on Cas’ lips. Cas looks surprised, Dean thinks, it’s a good look. 

Dean waves goodbye on his way out. 

*

Cas likes to ask questions. Dean had some warning over the six or seven weeks he’s known him, Cas’ curiosity being one of his most attractive qualities. But Dean hadn’t realized how much these questions would make him blush. Perhaps they teach the art of detached professionalism in PhD programs because Cas asks questions like, “Do you enjoy clitoral stimulation?” in the same tone he might ask, “Could you pass the salt, please?” 

They are in Castiel’s living room, watching an episode of Dr. Sexy. Watching being relative, as Dean hasn’t been able to focus with Cas nuzzling his neck, his nose drawing lines from the base of Dean’s throat to his ear, his fingers splayed just under the hem of Dean’s henley. Dean can’t even pretend that he’s watching the show anymore. And now this.

Dean feels tongue-tied and a little grateful that Cas’ face is still hidden in the crook of Dean’s neck. He swallows. “Yes,” he manages. 

“What kind?” 

Kind? Dean thinks wildly. 

Dean feels Cas’ words tickle against his neck before he hears them: “Is it okay to use my hands?” 

Dean’s brain helpfully provides a sense memory. “Yeah,” he says, voice sounding husky even to his own ears.

Cas’ lips are against Dean’s jaw now, his hand on Dean’s upper thigh, heavy and hot. “I’m glad,” he murmurs. Dean turns his face and captures Cas’ lips in a searing kiss. They shift against each other, pulling one to the other, giving chase when one pulls away even the slightest. 

Out of breath, Dean slows down the kiss. Cas pulls back, licks a soothing stripe over Dean’s bottom lip, and says, “What about oral stimulation? Can I go down on you?”

“Fuck yes,” Dean says before his body can remember to be shy or embarrassed. Cas seems infinitely pleased, allowing Dean to push him back onto the sectional and climb on top.

At some point in between kisses, Cas gets a hand between them and with a little help from Dean, adjusting Cas’ aim and helping set the rhythm with his hips, Dean comes.

After, still in the haze of afterglow, Dean reaches for Cas, palms his hardon over his jeans (yet another reason to love weekends--Cas only wears them then). He presses wet kisses to Cas’ neck, tastes salt, smells the pleasant musk that he’s starting to associate with Cas. “What about you?” The words are slightly muffled by Cas’ neck, but it’s easier to ask with a distraction. 

Cas’ hand moves over Dean’s, pulls it away from his erection and on to the buttons of his jeans. Dean grins, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping. Cas helps by raising his hips and pushing down his jeans and briefs, freeing his erection.

It’s the first time they’ve really gone below the waist--hell, they haven’t even managed to get shirts off yet--and Dean is thrilled. Cas kisses him hard, grabs Dean’s hand and gently guides him to his exposed erection. 

Dean takes him in hand, thumb sliding over the tip, spreading slick precome over Cas and onto his palm. Then he sets a slow pace. Cas growls and Dean laughs, tightens his hold just a little. Cas’ eyes glaze over, and Dean grins down at him, goes a touch faster.

He watches Cas, mouth parted, head tilted back. Dean’s eyes trail down across Cas’ chest, abdomen, to where he has Cas in hand. It’s a thrill to look at, Cas’ cock moving in and out of his fist. The air smells of him, of sex, of them, and Cas is hot and hard in his hand. Dean’s senses feel overwhelmed, the varied stimulations combining and winding him up again. His hips jerk forward unconsciously.

Cas folds one of his hands over Dean’s, moves them together in the way he likes, slightly harder and faster. Dean watches, unblinking, Cas’ tanner hand against his, the red-pink-slick tip of Cas’ cock disappearing and reappearing from the tunnel of their hands. Breath shortening, Dean feels more like it’s him Cas is working on instead of the other way around.

Cas comes in hot spurts while Dean watches. He’s so taken by it that he follows, body concaving, forehead against Cas’ shoulders, eyes finally closing. 

“You came just from watching,” Cas says breathlessly, tone reverent. Dean feels too blissed out to be embarrassed. 

“I’m a visual person,” he says dopily, twitching in the aftershock, hand grabbing at the tails of Cas’ shirt.

Cas laughs, fondly, Dean thinks, and kisses the top of his head.

*

On a Wednesday afternoon while Dean wraps up at the garage, his phone buzzes. “How do you feel about nipple play?”

All the color in Dean’s body concentrates on his face and he glances around to see if anyone notices. Seeing everyone occupied, he walks to the workbench in the far corner of the room and texts back, “Aren’t you in class??” 

“The TA is lecturing today,” Cas writes back almost instantly. 

“And I was thinking about you,” quickly follows the first text.

Well, damn, Dean thinks. “How ‘bout you find out after my shift tonight?” 

Cas doesn’t respond. Dean stands there for a couple of long minutes, shifting from foot to foot. Absolutely the wrong time to leave a guy hanging, Dean thinks. 

“Hey Dean, can you grab me a filter?” Benny yells towards him. 

“Yeah, in a minute,” Dean yells back. 

“What you got there, Dean?” Dorothy joins in, tone teasing. 

Dean flips her off, and Dortothy pretends to be crushed. 

He checks the timestamp on his text, sent four minutes ago. Wants to growl at it. Totally the wrong time to not text back. He grabs the filters and walks them over to Benny. 

“You okay, brother?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean dismisses. Walks away and stares at his phone some more. Seven whole minutes later, his phone buzzes. “Sry, students asking q’s, TA needed a rescue.” Then quickly after: “Yes to tonight. Meet at my place?”

Relieved, Dean shoots back a thumbs up emoji. He really hates texting. 

*

That night, after Dean establishes just how much he enjoys nipple play and learns that Cas is less enthusiastically inclined though not immune, Dean curls up against Cas’ side. They are in Cas’ bedroom, the first time Dean’s been in the space, and it’s near pitch black. Not having taken his shirt off in front of anyone since the surgery, Dean had asked to keep the lights off, feeling self-conscious and shy. Cas hadn’t minded, for which Dean had felt grateful.

“I’ve more questions.”

Dean lifts his head and props his chin on Cas’ chest. In the dark, he can’t see very much, but he can feel the rise and fall of Cas’ chest under him, Cas’ hand on his back, fingers lightly tracing patterns. “You got a checklist or something?” Dean asks.

Cas seems to really think about it, hand stilling on his back. “No,” he says at length. “I can make one if that would help.”

“That was a rhetorical question, Cas,” Dean chuckles and puts his head back down. “Ask your questions.”

“How do you feel about penetration?”

Dean sucks in a breath, unrelentingly grateful for the darkness of the room. Somehow it makes it easier to discuss such intimate things. “I like it okay.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Like sometimes, I can be really into it and it’ll feel good, just right. Other times, it feels...unnatural.” 

He feels Cas shift above him, maybe drop a kiss on Dean’s head. “Hmm, that makes sense. Do you have a preference for anal or--”

“You really like your questions, huh?” Dean interrupts.

“I find it easier to navigate when I understand the perimeters. It’s important for me to not take these things for granted.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean settles into the quiet, thinking about how to respond. “I like anal, probably more than the other kind.” He has a hard time saying the word; it feels wrong on his tongue.

“That’s good to know. How do you feel about wearing a prosthetic?”

Prosthetic? It takes Dean a moment to realize that Cas is talking about a strap-on. “You mean a strap-on?” 

“Yes.”

The implications sit between them and Dean’s head feels crowded. He lifts his head to look at Cas, though he can only see the outline of his jaw, the edges of his tousled hair, memory filling in what his eyes can’t see. “You’d be into that?” Dean asks, voice cracking. He clears his throat.

“I would.”

Two words and everything explodes inside Dean. Cas would let Dean fuck him. It’s not a thought he’s considered before. 

“Dean?”

“Awesome,” Dean says belatedly and Cas laughs. Dean drops kisses on Cas’ chest, settling down again, his entire body thrumming with energy. “What else you got?” he asks cheerfully.

“Uh, do you have names for your parts?”

“Do you?”

“Cock, dick, penis, all suffice. Though I call my balls Bonnie and Clyde sometimes.” 

Dean laugh loudly. “You’re so weird, I like it.” 

“Thank you. What about you?” Cas asks.

“Haven’t given it much thought, really,” Dean says honestly, rubbing his nose against Cas’ sternum. What would he call his parts? Especially when they’ve never been what he wished they were?

“There’s no rush. It took me a while to come up with Bonnie and Clyde.”

This sets Dean off again, and they both laugh, each setting the other one off into new peals. When the laughter subsides, Dean finds himself repositioned on the bed. Cas moves enough for Dean to share his pillow and the tips of their noses touch. Cas has an arm over Dean’s back and a knee between Dean’s thighs. 

“What’s on your no list?” Cas whispers.

“No list?” Dean whispers back.

“Things you don’t do or enjoy.”

Dean thinks about it, shifts his legs so Cas is more comfortably settled between them. “Nothing too out there, I guess.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean laughs. “You are persistent,” he says, fondly. “I haven’t given this a lot of thought, Cas, and you’re making me wonder if all the sex I’ve had to date might be too vanilla for you.” He says this lightly, but feels remarkably vulnerable. 

“This isn’t a test of how adventurous you are as a partner, Dean,” Cas says plainly. “I like dirty talk, but I don’t like humiliation. Spanking is a firm no, but you can occasionally slap me playfully on the ass in a different context. I usually take the lead, but sometimes I enjoy being more submissive.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes. “Okay.” Then, “I..uh...I’m not into humiliation either. The spanking is a nonissue, and I’m okay with whatever you’re comfortable with. And I’ve only been more dominant with female partners, but I can take the lead occasionally.” It all comes out in a rush and Cas kisses him after. Like he’s rewarding Dean’s rambling disclosure. 

“That’s good,” he says against Dean’s lips. 

They are quiet for a while, Dean’s body fuzzy with sleep but trying to stay awake. He yawns.

“You should sleep. It’s late.”

“Okay if I stay here?” Dean can’t imagine getting up, but he wants to check in.

“Yes.” Cas shifts to lie on his back, pulls Dean into him.

“Cool. ‘Night, Cas,” Dean says, nosing at Cas’ jaw.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Before Dean falls asleep, he feels a light press against his hair. 

*

Dean wakes up to his alarm on Thursday morning and mumbles an apology to Cas who barely moves. Hard sleeper, good to know. The covers rustle as Dean tries to slip out quietly. 

An arm flies possessively over his thigh. “Where are you going?” Cas’ question is muffled by the pillow and Dean chuckles. He’s cute when he’s sleepy.

“I gotta get to my place to change and then head to the garage.”

“Hmmk,” Cas says, not moving his arm. 

Dean smiles, pulls it off and kisses the inside of Cas’ wrist. Gently places it down on the mattress and covers it with the comforter. 

Weak, winter light pours in through the partially open blinds allowing Dean to spot his discarded clothes. On his way out of Cas’ bedroom, he notices a framed photo of two boys in a large garden. He peers closely at them, standing with their arms around each other, big identical grins on their faces. Dean knows that grin, has seen it a few times on Cas’ face. He looks back over at Cas’ sleeping form and bookmarks the photo in his mind as something to ask Cas about at another time. He leaves the apartment quietly. 

*

With Cas, Dean falls into a new routine. He works at the garage, cleans at KU, spends his shift breaks in Cas’ office, drives him home more nights than not (he quickly learns that Cas loathes parking at KU, the lots filling to capacity by ten in the morning leaving Cas to circle lot after lot when he arrives well after noon; Dean’s never faced this issue since he works the night shift, but he can sympathize). On the nights he drops Cas off, he follows Cas inside, Cas kissing him breathless like he’s been waiting all night to do it. Then it’s a long battle with sleep, fighting to stay awake long enough to do the sort of exploring he wants to do, to learn Cas’ body with his hands and mouth, to be known in turn. 

One such evening, Cas tentatively asks if he can light some candles and Dean quietly agrees. Watches Cas light candles Dean had barely registered before. He lies back and stares at the ceiling, taking long, deep breaths to quell his nervousness. It’s not like Cas doesn’t know the scars are there; it’s not like he’s not felt them or kissed them tenderly. Dean had cried the first time Cas did that, furtively wiping them away so Cas wouldn’t notice. 

When Cas lights the last of the candles, the room is a warm orange-yellow, shadows of furniture and objects elongated by the steady light. Cas gets back into bed, kisses Dean softly on the mouth. He kisses Dean’s cheeks, his eyelids, and his forehead. It’s so tender that Dean has to squash the defensive, sarcastic, stupid comment that wants to escape and ruin the moment. 

“Is this okay?” Cas asks.

Dean can feel Cas’ eyes searching his face even with his eyes closed. “Hmmhmm,” Dean hums.

“Dean, I can blow out the candles. I want you to be comfortable,” Cas says softly.

Dean opens his eyes; he should do this. He wants to do this. 

“Hi,” Cas says. 

“Hey,” Dean says back. 

Cas leans forward, touching his forehead to Dean’s, nuzzling his nose. It makes Dean laugh, just a little. 

“I don’t know why this feels like such a big deal,” Dean says. “I’m not usually this self-conscious.”

“You don’t need a reason for it to be a big deal. It can just be, and that’s okay,” Cas says reasonably. He’s always got reasonable answers, Dean thinks.

“Yeah, but--”

“There’s no but,” Cas says. “There are things that are a big deal to me that might not be for other people.”

Dean scoffs. “Like what?”

Cas meets his eyes. No hiding, no looking away. “Well, I ask a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, and you know how hard it is to ask questions the way you do?”   


“Yes, but it’s easy for me. I was trained to ask questions--”

“Ha! I knew it!” Dean says triumphantly.

Cas laughs. “It’s easy for me to put on that researcher hat and ask questions. It’s much harder for me to answer them, or for me to offer something without being asked. I… If you haven’t noticed, I kind of hide.”

Dean had noticed. The list of questions he wants to ask Cas, the things he’s curious about, grows longer every day. He’s put them off, thinking they would get around to it when they had more time, like on a Sunday morning when he’s not rushing off to work while Cas sleeps or a Saturday night when he could stay up late without having to worry about being somewhere Sunday morning. Now, he rethinks that assumption. Revisits their conversations. Cas, ever curious, always asks questions and directs them from topic to topic. Sure, Dean’s been learning about Cas, but not the things he’s been most curious about, only the safest things that Cas talks about with certainty. 

“I have,” Dean finally says.

Cas smiles, contrite. “I don’t mean to always deflect or hide behind questions, it just takes a lot of effort to go against the current. Requires courage, I guess.”

Dean’s throat clicks as he swallows. “You don’t have to go at any pace other than the one you feel okay with.”

“I appreciate that. And the same goes for you.” He pauses to look around the room. “I can blow these out. It won’t take but a minute.”

Dean stops him from moving, arms going around Cas and holding him against Dean. “Don’t. It’s okay. I want to. I mean, I’m a visual guy, after all. Can’t keep depriving myself like this.” 

Cas is smiling when he kisses Dean.

*

Dean thinks about the questions he wants to ask Cas as he sluggishly vacuums the tenth floor. (He’s so tired; trying to hold down two jobs and a new relationship might be his absolute limit.) 

He’s learned quite a bit about Cas in the last couple of months. Cas has been the most forthcoming about his career, talking about his research on healing and recovery for survivors of child sexual abuse. The visual sexual history project is an arm of that, trying to provide better tools for healthcare providers to talk to youth about sex and violence. Dean had listened to Cas talk clinically about such devastating things, unsure of how to ask Cas why he’d decided to study such a heavy subject. Instead, he’d said inane things like how amazing Cas was, that it must be hard to study something like that day in and day out, that the world was fortunate to have someone like him doing what he did. Fortunately, Cas had quickly guided them onto something else, ending his blathering. 

In a conversation about past relationships, Cas had opened up about his views on long-term partnership (possible, desirable, and could look different than the norm depending on who’s involved, that is, non-monogamous). It had Dean wondering about what he wanted for himself. He had told Cas about Lisa and Ben, about how much he enjoyed being a parent. Cas had nodded, and somewhat sadly said that he didn’t think he ever wanted children. Dean had assumed it was the research, but he didn’t have a chance to ask and know for sure. 

And now that Dean is thinking about it, Cas’ redirection is so obvious to him. Dean’s shared many stories about his childhood, but Cas has offered only tidbits. His parents had disowned him; he has a sister, Anna, who introduced him to art; his grandmother had left him some money; he had been depressed as a teenager. But any time they got close to the specifics of these factoids, Cas distanced himself from the topic, swiftly navigating to the safe terrains of theories and impersonal anecdotes. The whole experience left a pallor of dissatisfaction that Dean, up until now, had overlooked since it’s been much easier to get swept up in the thrill of a new relationship. 

Now, Dean can admit that he wants the details, wants the stories, that he’s been  _ missing _ them. It’s terrifying to want intimacy that might be denied. Cas had said that with prompting, he is more able to talk about things. Maybe all this time that he’s been asking Dean questions, he was modeling what works for him. Dean can ask questions. Hell, he’s annoyed enough people in his life with questions. He can certainly ask them when they count. Even if it scares him a little (a lot). 

*

Through the open bathroom door, Dean listens to Cas brush his teeth. It’s a familiar sound now, and it makes him smile. He pulls on sweats he’s appropriated from Cas’ wardrobe, keeps his socks on because Cas likes to keep the temperature low. (They had a heated debate about the subject a week ago with Cas arguing that it made cuddling under a blanket that much more satisfying, not to mention the environmental impact of using less energy. Dean had lost that argument, he’s not ashamed to admit, though he would be hard pressed to confess that he enjoyed the hell out of cuddling.)

Dean glances at the clock on Cas’ dresser. It’s early yet, for them anyway, a little past ten. And it’s Saturday night, which Dean likes for many reasons. His gaze shifts to the framed picture on Cas’ dresser and he pauses. He’s been meaning to ask Cas about the photo for a while now, always thinking of it at the least convenient time. He picks up the frame and stares at it some. “Hey,” he calls out to Cas. “Is this you in the picture?”   


“What picture?” Cas asks from the bathroom.

“The one on your dresser, of the two boys.” Dean walks the picture over to the bathroom and sees Cas frozen, eyes wide, a string of floss in hand. “What’s wrong?”

Cas looks between the photo and Dean. “I forgot that was there,” he says absently. 

Dean looks at the photo. “You forgot?”

Cas shakes his head, drops the floss into the trash bin and washes his hands. Then he takes the frame from Dean’s hand and looks down at the photo. “That’s me and my brother, Jimmy.”

“You have a brother? You two look exactly alike,” Dean says, standing next to Cas and staring down at the picture again.

“Had,” Cas says softly. “He died when we were teenagers.”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says, arm going around Cas’ back. 

Cas nods and walks away from Dean. Dean’s arm feels suddenly empty, and he swallows down the unease. 

Cas carefully places the frame back on the dresser. “We’re twins,” Cas says, not looking at Dean. “He was a few minutes older than me, so he liked to say he was my big brother. Tried to boss me around, actually.”

Dean laughs, grateful that Cas is talking and not redirecting. He walks over to the bed and sits. “Yeah, I pulled that with Sammy, too. Tell me more about him.”

Cas crosses the room and sits next to him. Dean reaches out and holds his hand. “We were really different. Jimmy was the obedient one, the good one. He never broke any rules, always said his prayers, always got good grades. While I was running after things I liked, like art and books, he was going to bible circles and volunteering at church. He had no interest in anything outside of faith.”

Dean stays quiet, gently rubbing his thumb over Cas’ knuckles, listening. 

“I used to get mad at him for not being fun, never wanting to do anything other than be obedient. I would leave him often and get into trouble on my own. I shouldn’t have left him like that.” Cas’ voice cracks in the last sentence. “When we were fifteen, he died by suicide.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, tightening his grip on Cas’ hand. Cas grips back. 

“He left a letter, apologizing--” Cas’ voice breaks into a sob. “Fuck,” he says.

Dean hugs him, holds him tight. 

“I didn’t know, didn’t even suspect what he was going through,” Cas says, pulling away. Dean keeps an arm around him, holds his hand with the other. Cas takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Catholic Church’s sex abuse scandal,” Cas says, sounding detached.

Dean sucks a breath in. “Fuck,” he says. A worry knots itself in his stomach. 

“Yeah.” Cas makes an aborted choked sound that may have been a poor attempt at laughter. “In his letter, he disclosed everything. What he couldn’t live with anymore, the abuse he lived with for years, that I didn’t have a clue about. That none of us knew about.”

He turns to Dean then, burying his face in Dean’s chest. Dean holds him tight, carding his hand through Cas’ hair. “You weren’t supposed to know. These things are expertly kept a secret. You couldn’t have known.”

“I knew everything else,” Cas says.

“I know,” Dean says. “I’ve got you,” Dean says, holding tight, meaning it. “I’ve got you.”

*

Eventually, Cas settles against Dean, head under Dean’s chin, arm around Dean’s chest. Dean holds him tight, stays quiet. Cas has been speaking in bursts, short moments of disclosure followed by long silences. 

“Our parents didn’t believe him, didn’t believe the letter he left behind. If I hadn’t found it first, I don’t think they would’ve even showed it to me,” Cas says. 

“That’s really fucked up,” Dean says. 

“Yeah. They were more concerned with being humiliated by Jimmy’s actions than they were about losing their own son or getting justice. They wouldn’t quit the church either, just kept going. Anna wasn’t home, had moved out for college the year before, so it was just me with them.”

“How’d you deal with the anger? The grief?” Dean asks quietly, unsure if he should ask at all. 

“I rebelled for a while, I guess. Yelled and screamed at them till they started talking about sending me to boarding school or something. Then, at Christmas, Anna came home and she told me I just had to survive the next two and a half years. That if I could do that, I could leave, be angry then. But I should keep my head down and just get out. So, I did.” 

Dean breathes, imagining Cas as a teenager, wrecked by anger and grief, channeling all his feelings to getting out. “That’s some damn fine compartmentalizing skills, Cas. I’m glad you got out.”

Cas laughs without humor. “Yeah. It caught up with me eventually, spent years angry and depressed. It’s a little better now. The work helps.”

Dean kisses the top of his head. “You do good work.”

Cas goes silent again for a long time. Then, “You must think of me as such as a mess.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean scoffs, lifts his head to look down at Cas. Cas doesn’t look up, so all Dean sees is his tousled hair. “Cas, you’re the bravest, most amazing person I’ve ever met. I… Dude, I respect you so much. You didn’t just survive that shit, you have been working towards making it better for other people. You didn’t even have to do more than survive because surviving takes everything, but here you are doing more. I just--I can’t even imagine the kind of strength it must’ve taken for you to be here right now. I--I am in awe of you, okay?” The last part comes out a little broken and Cas picks up his head and looks at Dean.

“You really mean that.”

“Hell yeah I do,” Dean says resolutely.

Cas leans down and kisses him. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Pfft,” Dean says. “You ain’t gotta thank me.”

“I know.” Cas smiles, the first genuine smile since the conversation started. 

*

They drift to sleep, but like the conversation, sleep comes in small bursts. Dean is too aware of Castiel, wants desperately to make sure he’s okay. Cas shifts against him, awake again. “You need anything?” Dean asks.

“I’ve got a headache,” Cas says. 

“Let me get you something. You’re probably dehydrated, too,” Dean says. He untangles them slowly and walks out to the kitchen. Gets water and ibuprofen. “Drink this,” Dean says, passing it all over to Cas. 

Cas sits up, and Dean gets a good look at his face. Tear tracks and red, puffy eyes. Dean goes into the bathroom and wets a clean washcloth. Brings it back and sits next to Cas. “Come here,” he says, pulling Cas a bit closer. He gently wipes Cas’ face. Cas leans into his touch, sighs, eyes closing. Dean kisses his cheeks, his forehead. “A little better?”

Cas nods. 

“Good. You want more water?” 

Cas shakes his head no. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” Dean goes to rinse and hang the washcloth in the bathroom, returns to find Cas dozing off, body curled in a fetal position. He gets in bed and turns off the light, curls himself around Cas. 

*

When Dean wakes up, he’s alone in bed, an unusual occurrence given Cas’ predilection for sleeping in. It’s early, not yet eight in the morning. Dean rolls out of bed, pisses and cleans up in the bathroom, and then goes in search of Cas.

He finds him in his home office, sketching. Dean leans against the door and watches Cas work. “Morning,” he says after a while.

Cas looks up, bright-eyed. “Good morning. Didn’t wake you, did I?”

Dean shakes his head, stays by the door. “You have a breakthrough?”

Cas looks down at the sketchpad on his desk. “Something like that.”

Dean nods. “That’s good. I’m gonna make some breakfast.”

“I might keep working for a while.”

“Yeah, do your thing. Not going anywhere.” Dean smiles and pulls the door to the office closed. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening, but he feels damned hopeful all of a sudden. 

*

Dean’s body goes on strike a few weeks later, running a high fever and knocking him off his feet. Bobby notices first, calling Dean into his office. 

Dean sits, wincing at the aches and pain he’s trying to ignore. Bobby sits behind his overcrowded desk, papers and notebooks scattered all across the surface, eyes narrowed. 

“You’ve been looking more run down than usual. What’s going on?” 

“Just tired, Bobby, nothing to worry about,” Dean lies.

Bobby frowns. “You look sick,” he says flatly. 

“It’s nothing, just a little tired. Don’t worry about it,” Dean says again. 

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. If I want to worry, I damn well will. Now, what’s got you so tired?”

In spite of himself, Dean shivers. “I’ve just been working a lot.”

“Sam mentioned you’re seeing someone. That it?” Bobby says.

Fuck, Dean thinks, he’s gonna tear Sam a new one. “Yes, sir,” Dean mumbles.

Bobby’s face doesn’t exactly soften, but it’s no longer frowning. “You spending a lot of time with them?”

Dean nods, embarrassment increasing. 

“Well, that’s good. It’s been a while since you’ve dated anyone,” Bobby says. Dean meets Bobby’s eyes, surprised, but Bobby ignores the expression. “I’m glad you’re getting yourself a life outside of work, Dean, but you can’t burn the candle at both ends. It’s not sustainable, kid.”

Dean sighs, rubs his face. He’s so fucking tired. “I know,” he says.

“You thinking about quitting that second job?” Bobby asks.

Dean’s face must contort to show the mixed emotions he’s got about it because Bobby sighs, frowning again. “Think about quitting now that you’ve had the surgeries. Or, if you’re not gonna do that, cut your time here.”

Stricken, Dean protests, “Bobby, you can’t--”

“I’m not forcing you, boy.” Dean’s heart jumps at  _ boy _ , just as it always has whenever Bobby uses it. “But if you keep this up, you’ll just get sick and none of it will be an option.”

Dean nods, shivers again. That might be chills. Bobby’s eyes narrow suspiciously. 

“Are you sick now?” 

“No,” Dean lies.

Bobby stares at him with what Dean’s always thought was his bullshit detector face. Dean squirms a little. “Pack up your stuff and go home. Call in sick at the school, no questions.”

“But, Bobby--”

“No buts. I’ll have Benny drive you home.”

And that’s how Dean ends up holed up in his apartment wishing he were dead instead. News of his illness spreads fast. Ellen shows up with food and fusses over him; Jo and Charlie come over to watch TV with him (he sleeps through most of it); Sam sends apology cookies, too scared to face Dean’s wrath (and also, apparently out of town on a conference, but Dean prefers to think it’s Dean Sam’s scared of); even his dad calls, gruffly asking after him, chastising him for doing too much before abruptly asking if he needs anything because John isn’t as helpless as Dean likes to believe. He ends the call with a soft, “Well, get some rest, Dean,” hanging up before Dean can respond. It’s the first time that Dean can remember his father using his chosen name, and it feels so surreal that he considers writing it off as a fevered dream. 

Then there’s Cas, who texts to find out Dean’s whereabouts. When Dean finally gets around to admitting that he’s out sick, Cas shows up with soup. Dean’s not awake when Cas gets to his apartment, so he misses whatever interrogation Jo and Charlie put Cas through. He’s just there when Dean wakes up, pressing a cold compress onto Dean’s forehead and feeling so right and so good that Dean seriously thinks about telling him to never leave. 

They watch TV and Cas eats what’s left of Sam’s apology cookies (Jo and Charlie got to them first, the vultures). Stays with him until he’s finally up and about again.

*

“Bobby’s right, you know,” Cas says softly the next morning. “I should’ve paid more attention, realized what sort of strain you were putting yourself in juggling everything.”

“It’s just a cold,” Dean says. “It’s winter. People get sick.”

“You’ve been tired, I noticed that. I guess I was just being selfish, wanting more time with you than you could really give me,” Cas continues as if Dean hadn’t spoken at all.

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. He pulls Cas’ face towards him, looks him in the eye to make sure he’s really listening. “I will work this out, reduce my hours somewhere or quit KU or something. Just, stop blaming yourself.”

Cas grins. “I am not  _ blaming _ myself.”

Dean glares. 

“Thank you,” Cas says graciously.

*

When Dean returns to work, he putters around sluggishly. Bobby’s refused to see him at the shop, saying Dean should ease into it by working only one job for a while. Even with his day free, the work feels harder than ever before. He doesn’t think he felt this tired of it even after his surgery. 

“Hey, Dean. How you feeling?” 

Dean looks up from his dinner as Columbus sits across from him. “Better,” Dean says.

“You sure? You still don’t look so good.”

Dean snorts out a half-laugh. Columbus has always been incredibly observant. “I think I need to make a change. Figure out my priorities,” Dean says. “Just don’t know what to do. I’m so used to this…”

“But doing this isn’t working anymore, right?”   


Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

Columbus nods sympathetically, but stays quiet.

“What would you do?” Dean asks.

After a while, Columbus says, “I believe that if it’s not clear to me, then I gotta hand it off to God. Trust that God’s got me. Fears are just manifestations of distrust, our unwillingness to trust that God’s got us. If I let go of the fears, then I trust God to take care of me, and things work out. But the letting go part, that’s what requires faith, faith that says regardless of what happens, I’ll be taken care of.” 

Dean sucks in a breath. “I’m not much of a religious man.”

“You don’t gotta be.”

“I don’t think there’s a God out there who cares about someone as insignificant as me.”

Columbus laughs. “You remember when you first joined here, Dean? When you started transitioning and you told me that you weren’t sure how you came to get this job? Full time and benefits?”

Dean nods wearily.

“You don’t think God’s got anything to do with that? That God wasn’t looking out for you then?”

“I--” Dean doesn’t know what to say.

“You may not use the words I use, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something greater than ourselves at work. You’ll work it out, I got faith in that, too.” Columbus grins at him. 

Dean smiles back weakly. “Thanks, Columbus.”

“Any time.”

*

Dean thinks about Columbus’ words, his certainty and faith. Dean’s never had that. His parents, as far as he can remember, were not god-fearing people. They didn’t go to church, certainly not after his mother died. If they did before, he doesn’t remember. In fact, no one in his life seems all that into it. The only person that comes close is Cas, but he’s got his own trauma with the church. Dean can’t bring himself to ask him.

So he considers his fears. He’s got a lot of those. What would he do if he didn’t have to work nights?  _ Spend time with Cas _ , a voice says inside his head.  _ Get back to spending time with friends _ , another one chimes in.  _ Relax, Dean, _ says another that sounds too much like Jo.  _ Have a life, buddy _ , says a Charlie-voice. 

Dean sighs. A life. He’s forgotten what it’s like to actually have a life, though Cas has been reminding him more and more. It comes in the way of time he wishes he had, things he wants to do with Cas, conversations he wants to have. It comes in waves, desires that won’t be ignored any longer. 

He can’t quite work out the faith, though. Doesn’t trust enough to believe it’s all going to work out in his favor. But what he knows is how tired he is. He feels that bone-deep now. This job was never meant to be a permanent thing, he reminds himself. And he’s been hating having to choose who he can spend time with, doling out appointments like he’s a miserable bastard in some godforsaken corporate machine. It’s just not him. 

So, he could quit, probably stay in debt longer, tighten the purse strings in some other way. Actually live the life he seems to have acquired for himself. 

Dean types the email to Zachariah quickly on his phone before he can doubt again. He’ll figure out the then in time. For now, he’s gonna get a life and break this routine.

  
  
  
  


**Epilogue**

“Bobby?” Dean calls out and receives no response. The old man had left a voicemail for him, told him to drop by the house. “Bobby, it’s Dean,” he calls out again. No response.

He walks in the direction of Bobby’s home office. He hasn’t been here in a while, but it’s still as packed as ever, books stacked high all around, some on shelves, some gathered on the floor. Bobby’s office is no different. There are printouts all over the sturdy wood desk, an ancient desktop on the left. The walls are lined with shelves of mostly old, musty books with worn bindings. Sam had introduced Bobby to Half.com back when Bobby had gotten a decent internet connection, and Bobby’s library had grown exponentially practically overnight. Dean looks at the trash and recycling bin next to Bobby’s desk and sees the detritus of packing materials. More books ordered and probably read.

Not seeing Bobby, he turns to leave. A plain, hardcover binding sitting on top of a pile of books near the door catches his eye. It’s newer, an intact binding, which is why it stands out. Dean walks over and picks it up. Opens to the cover page.  _ Redefining Realness: My Path to Womanhood, Identity, Love, and So Much More _ reads the title page. Dean blinks down at the title, reads it twice. He’s only familiar with Janet Mock because Sam told him about her. 

He looks back at the pile and sees that all the books are relatively new. Some, like  _ Trans Bodies, Trans Selves _ , are familiar to him--his therapist had encouraged him to read some things; others are completely unfamiliar. He picks up a book titled  _ Becoming a Visible Man _ . The author is Jamison Green. He pages through the book, notes the highlights and underlines. There’s a large section highlighted on page 121:

> Are hormones enough? Is it the clothing, the beard, the body hair, the muscular density, the odor of male scent, the attitude of “man” that connects with others and makes for social acceptance or sexual attraction? All those secondary sex markers have a very real function in communicating with others about our sexuality and the nature of our psyche or our psychological sex and gender identities. We all make extensive use of these complex communication systems, though for the most part unconsciously. More to the point, though: is gender identity enough? Does a butch lesbian who prefers men’s clothing and gets called “sir” have to feel so responsible for other people’s confusion that she must conclude she would do better as a man? No, she does not. If she knows and accepts herself, she can claim her space as a woman who looks like a man, and that may very well be what makes her happy and attractive to others. What is her (or his) gender identity, and who gets to define it: her or himself, or someone observing him or her? Gender identity belongs to the person who lives it, but we cannot deny that observers will make their assumptions about us based on their understanding or comprehension of gender signals. We need to encourage people to be less concerned about “fixing” others, either by labeling, classifying, or punishing them. For transsexual people this means legitimizing the transformed body; for all people it means legitimizing the self. 

Dean plops down on the floor, no longer able to stay crouching. He reads the words again, blinking as they blur in front of him. He is shocked, touched. He tentatively reaches out and runs his hand over the spines. There are easily twenty books in front of him, and knowing Bobby, he’s read them all and probably more. And for Dean. Bobby went out and got books so that he could learn and understand Dean’s experience. So he could be there for Dean.

He’d wondered before how Bobby had been so at ease with everything, always doing and saying the right things. How he knew at all. Now, he can see it, and the sight makes him choke up, a tightness the size of a baseball rising up and out of his body. A whoosh of air follows, and he is lightened. He laughs and cries at the same time. Bobby. Fuck. He should’ve expected this, especially with Sam and Bobby often going into their “research modes.” But he’d never thought about it, had never imagined something like this.

“What do you think you are doing boy?”

Dean turns around at the sound. He must look tragic because Bobby’s face softens and he comes closer to Dean. Dean distantly feels more treacherous tears fall down his face. “How long have you--” he hears the jagged texture of his voice, clears his throat.

“Long enough,” Bobby says, crouching down and putting an arm around Dean. Dean hugs Bobby back and cries. His heart feels full.

“There’s no need to make a big deal out of it. Any idgit would realize they could learn a thing or two.” Implicit in Bobby’s words is a condemnation of John’s lack of willingness to learn, Dean knows, and cries all the harder for it.

Bobby pats him on the back and doesn’t say anything more, just waits for Dean’s sobs to subside. When Dean feels calmer, Bobby grunts. “I ain’t young enough to sit on hard floors like this.”

“Should’ve gotten the thicker rug like I told you,” Dean responds automatically, pulling away and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 

Bobby stands, his leg joints popping loudly. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I was looking for you. You left an urgent voicemail on my phone?” Dean stacks the books back up and stands. 

“Oh, that,” Bobby says. He walks around the desk and sits down, waves at the chair in front of the desk. Dean walks over and clears the files off the chair before sitting. “I didn’t want to tell you this till I had it worked out. There’s been a lot of hoops to jump through, but it’s sorted now. Starting next month, your shots will be covered by the shop’s healthcare plan.”

“Bobby,” Dean breathes.

“Don’t think I’m doing this just for you, boy,” Bobby says gruffly. “Benny and Andrea will benefit, too, trying to have a kid and everything ain’t cheap. Hormones are hormones and all that.”

Dean laughs. “I can’t believe you.”

“What’s to believe? Sorry it took so long.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, Bobby, you’ve done everything, more than I can ever repay--”

“Nothing to repay. We’re family, and family takes care of one another.”

Dean looks down at his hands. “Yeah. They do. Thanks, Bobby.” He stands up and goes to hug Bobby. Awkwardly, he holds onto the man, leaning down to hug his sitting form. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says, though he holds onto Dean for a good while before letting go. “Now, about this man you’ve been seeing. Am I gonna meet him anytime soon?”

“Bobby!” Dean laughs. Bobby looks at him pointedly, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll work on that.”

“You do that,” he says.

Dean leaves shortly after, feeling like the luckiest bastard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic revealed itself to me over the course of five months, and fairly early on it made a few demands: it wanted a Dean who grew up around women and people who gave him a sense of belonging; a Dean who was further along his healing journey, not someone just starting out; and a Dean who, despite being repeatedly courageous, didn’t see his bravery and didn’t quite trust his inner knowledge. I think it takes people a while to create new mental patterns, especially when the old grooves in our brains are so much easier to fall into. I found writing something like that to be quite difficult in many ways, the subtlety hard to capture, but I hope some of it hit the mark. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete. Posting every Monday.


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